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"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 


With  her  eye  for  detail  Marie  observed  that  the  young 
officer,  instead  of  imparting  information,  received  it. 

[Page  26 


SOMEWHERE 
IN  FRANCE" 


BY 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  :::::::::::::::::::::  1915 


- 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1915 


TO 
HOPE  DAVIS 


M178985 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" i 

PLAYING  DEAD 41 

THE  CARD-SHARP 91 

BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 115 

THE  BOY  SCOUT 155 

THE  FRAME-UP 185 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 

MARIE  GESSLER,  known  as  Marie  Chau- 
montel,  Jeanne  d'Avrechy,  the  Countess 
cTAurillac,  was  German.  Her  father,  who  served 
through  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  was  a  German 
spy.  It  was  from  her  mother  she  learned  to 
speak  French  sufficiently  well  to  satisfy  even  an 
Academician  and,  among  Parisians,  to  pass  as 
one.  Both  her  parents  were  dead.  Before  they 
departed,  knowing  they  could  leave  their  daughter 
nothing  save  their  debts,  they  had  had  her  trained 
as  a  nurse.  But  when  they  were  gone,  Marie  in 
the  Berlin  hospitals  played  politics,  intrigued,  in 
discriminately  misused  the  appealing,  violet  eyes. 
There  was  a  scandal;  several  scandals.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-five  she  was  dismissed  from  the 
Municipal  Hospital,  and  as  now — save  for  the 
violet  eyes — she  was  without  resources,  as  a 
compagnon  de  voyage  with  a  German  doctor  she 
travelled  to  Monte  Carlo.  There  she  abandoned 
the  doctor  for  Henri  Ravignac,  a  captain  in  the 
French  Aviation  Corps,  who,  when  his  leave  ended, 
escorted  her  to  Paris. 

3 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

The  duties  of  Captain  Ravignac  kept  him  in 
barracks  near  the  aviation  field,  but  Marie  he 
established  in  his  apartments  on  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann.  One  day  he  brought  from  the  bar 
racks  a  roll  of  blue-prints,  and  as  he  was  locking 
them  in  a  drawer,  said:  "The  Germans  would 
pay  through  the  nose  for  those!"  The  remark 
was  indiscreet,  but  then  Marie  had  told  him  she 
was  French,  and  any  one  would  have  believed 
her. 

The  next  morning  the  same  spirit  of  adventure 
that  had  exiled  her  from  the  Berlin  hospitals  car 
ried  her  with  the  blue-prints  to  the  German  em 
bassy.  There,  greatly  shocked,  they  first  wrote 
down  her  name  and  address,  and  then,  indignant 
at  her  proposition,  ordered  her  out.  But  the  day 
following  a  strange  young  German  who  was  not 
at  all  indignant,  but,  on  the  contrary,  quite  charm 
ing,  called  upon  Marie.  For  the  blue-prints  he 
offered  her  a  very  large  sum,  and  that  same  hour 
with  them  and  Marie  departed  for  Berlin.  Marie 
did  not  need  the  money.  Nor  did  the  argument 
that  she  was  serving  her  country  greatly  impress 
her.  It  was  rather  that  she  loved  intrigue. 
And  so  she  became  a  spy. 

Henri  Ravignac,  the  man  she  had  robbed  of 
the  blue-prints,  was  tried  by  court  martial.  The 

4 


" 


Somewhere  in  France 


charge  was  treason,  but  Charles  Ravignac,  his 
younger  brother,  promised  to  prove  that  the  guilty 
one  was  the  girl,  and  to  that  end  obtained  leave 
of  absence  and  spent  much  time  and  money.  At 
the  trial  he  was  able  to  show  the  record  of  Marie 
in  Berlin  and  Monte  Carlo;  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  German  secret  agent;  that  on  the 
afternoon  the  prints  disappeared  Marie,  with  an 
agent  of  the  German  embassy,  had  left  Paris  for 
Berlin.  In  consequence  of  this  the  charge  of 
selling  military  secrets  was  altered  to  one  of 
"gross  neglect,"  and  Henri  Ravignac  was  sen 
tenced  to  two  years  in  the  military  prison  at 
Tours.  But  he  was  of  an  ancient  and  noble  fam 
ily,  and  when  they  came  to  take  him  from  his 
cell  in  the  Cherche-Midi,  he  was  dead.  Charles, 
his  brother,  disappeared.  It  was  said  he  also 
had  killed  himself;  that  he  had  been  appointed 
a  military  attache  in  South  America;  that  to 
revenge  his  brother  he  had  entered  the  secret 
service;  but  whatever  became  of  him  no  one 
knew.  All  that  was  certain  was  that,  thanks  to 
the  act  of  Marie  Gessler,  on  the  rolls  of  the  French 
army  the  ancient  and  noble  name  of  Ravignac  no 
longer  appeared. 

In  her  chosen  profession  Marie  Gessler  found 
nothing  discreditable.     Of  herself  her  opinion  was 

5 


16  Somewhere  in  France  " 

not  high,  and  her  opinion  of  men  was  lower. 
For  her  smiles  she  had  watched  several  sacrifice 
honor,  duty,  loyalty;  and  she  held  them  and 
their  kind  in  contempt.  To  lie,  to  cajole,  to  rob 
men  of  secrets  they  thought  important,  and  of 
secrets  the  importance  of  which  they  did  not 
even  guess,  was  to  her  merely  an  intricate  and 
exciting  game. 

She  played  it  very  well.  So  well  that  in  the 
service  her  advance  was  rapid.  On  important 
missions  she  was  sent  to  Russia,  through  the  Bal 
kans;  even  to  the  United  States.  There,  with 
credentials  as  an  army  nurse,  she  inspected  our 
military  hospitals  and  unobtrusively  asked  many 
innocent  questions. 

When  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  work  in  her 
beloved  Paris,  "they"  told  her  when  war  came 
"they"  intended  to  plant  her  inside  that  city, 
and  that,  until  then,  the  less  Paris  knew  of  her 
the  better. 

But  just  before  the  great  war  broke,  to  report 
on  which  way  Italy  might  jump,  she  was  sent  to 
Rome,  and  it  was  not  until  September  she  was 
recalled.  The  telegram  informed  her  that  her 
Aunt  Elizabeth  was  ill,  and  that  at  once  she  must 
return  to  Berlin.  This,  she  learned  from  the  code 
book  wrapped  under  the  cover  of  her  thermos 

6 


"Somewhere  in  France" 

bottle,  meant  that  she  was  to  report  to  the  gen 
eral  commanding  the  German  forces  at  Soissons. 

From  Italy  she  passed  through  Switzerland, 
and,  after  leaving  Basle,  on  military  trains  was 
rushed  north  to  Luxemburg,  and  then  west  to 
Laon.  She  was  accompanied  by  her  companion, 
Bertha,  an  elderly  and  respectable,  even  distin 
guished-looking  female.  In  the  secret  service  her 
number  was  528.  Their  passes  from  the  war 
office  described  them  as  nurses  of  the  German 
Red  Cross.  Only  the  Intelligence  Department 
knew  their  real  mission.  With  her  also,  as  her 
chauffeur,  was  a  young  Italian  soldier  of  fortune, 
Paul  Anfossi.  He  had  served  in  the  Belgian 
Congo,  in  the  French  Foreign  Legion  in  Algiers, 
and  spoke  all  the  European  languages.  In  Rome, 
where  as  a  wireless  operator  he  was  serving  a 
commercial  company,  in  selling  Marie  copies  of 
messages  he  had  memorized,  Marie  had  found 
him  useful,  and  when  war  came  she  obtained  for 
him,  from  the  Wilhelmstrasse,  the  number  292. 
From  Laon,  in  one  of  the  automobiles  of  the 
General  Staff,  the  three  spies  were  driven  first  to 
Soissons,  and  then  along  the  road  to  Meaux  and 
Paris,  to  the  village  of  Neufchelles.  They  arrived 
at  midnight,  and  in  a  chateau  of  one  of  the  cham 
pagne  princes,  found  the  colonel  commanding  the 

7 


14  Somewhere  in  France'3 

Intelligence  Bureau.  He  accepted  their  creden 
tials,  destroyed  them,  and  replaced  them  with  a 
laisser-passer  signed  by  the  mayor  of  Laon.  That 
dignitary,  the  colonel  explained,  to  citizens  of 
Laon  fleeing  to  Paris  and  the  coast  had  issued 
many  passes.  But  as  now  between  Laon  and  Paris 
there  were  three  German  armies,  the  refugees  had 
been  turned  back  and  their  passes  confiscated. 

"From  among  them,"  said  the  officer,  "we  have 
selected  one  for  you.  It  is  issued  to  the  wife  of 
Count  d'Aurillac,  a  captain  of  reserves,  and  her 
aunt,  Madame  Benet.  It  asks  for  those  ladies 
and  their  chauffeur,  Briand,  a  safe-conduct  through 
the  French  military  lines.  If  it  gets  you  into 
Paris  you  will  destroy  it  and  assume  another 
name.  The  Count  d'Aurillac  is  now  with  his 
regiment  in  that  city.  If  he  learned  of  the  pres 
ence  there  of  his  wife,  he  would  seek  her,  and  that 
would  not  be  good  for  you.  So,  if  you  reach  Paris, 
you  will  become  a  Belgian  refugee.  You  are  high 
born  and  rich.  Your  chateau  has  been  destroyed. 
But  you  have  money.  You  will  give  liberally  to 
the  Red  Cross.  You  will  volunteer  to  nurse  in 
the  hospitals.  With  your  sad  story  of  ill  treat 
ment  by  us,  with  your  high  birth,  and  your  knowl 
edge  of  nursing,  which  you  acquired,  of  course, 
only  as  an  amateur,  you  should  not  find  it  diffi- 

8 


' 


Somewhere  in  France 


cult  to  join  the  Ladies  of  France,  or  the  American 
Ambulance.  What  you  learn  from  the  wounded 
English  and  French  officers  and  the  French  doc 
tors  you  will  send  us  through  the  usual  channels." 

"When  do  I  start  ?"  asked  the  woman. 

"For  a  few  days,"  explained  the  officer,  "you 
remain  in  this  chateau.  You  will  keep  us  in 
formed  of  what  is  going  forward  after  we  with 
draw." 

"Withdraw?"  It  was  more  of  an  exclamation 
than  a  question.  Marie  was  too  well  trained  to 
ask  questions. 

"We  are  taking  up  a  new  position,"  said  the 
officer,  "on  the  Aisne." 

The  woman,  incredulous,  stared. 

"And  we  do  not  enter  Paris  ?" 

"You  do,"  returned  the  officer.  "That  is  all 
that  concerns  you.  We  will  join  you  later  —  in  the 
spring.  Meanwhile,  for  the  winter  we  intrench 
ourselves  along  the  Aisne.  In  a  chimney  of  this 
chateau  we  have  set  up  a  wireless  outfit.  We  are 
leaving  it  intact.  The  chauffeur  Briand  —  who, 
you  must  explain  to  the  French,  you  brought 
with  you  from  Laon,  and  who  has  been  long  in 
your  service  —  will  transmit  whatever  you  dis 
cover.  We  wish  especially  to  know  of  any  move 
ment  toward  our  left.  If  they  attack  in  front 

9 


u  Somewhere  in  France'1 

from  Soissons,  we  are  prepared;    but  of  any  at 
tempt  to  cross  the  Oise  and  take  us  in  flank,  you 


must  warn  us." 


The  officer  rose  and  hung  upon  himself  his 
field-glasses,  map-cases,  and  side-arms. 

"We  leave  you  now/'  he  said.  "When  the 
French  arrive  you  will  tell  them  your  reason  for 
halting  at  this  chateau  was  that  the  owner,  Mon 
sieur  Iverney,  and  his  family  are  friends  of  your 
husband.  You  found  us  here,  and  we  detained 
you.  And  so  long  as  you  can  use  the  wireless, 
make  excuses  to  remain.  If  they  offer  to  send 
you  on  to  Paris,  tell  them  your  aunt  is  too  ill  to 
travel." 

"But  they  will  find  the  wireless,"  said  the 
woman.  "They  are  sure  to  use  the  towers  for 
observation,  and  they  will  find  it." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  officer,  "you  will  sug 
gest  to  them  that  we  fled  in  such  haste  we  had  no 
time  to  dismantle  it.  Of  course,  you  had  no 
knowledge  that  it  existed,  or,  as  a  loyal  French 
woman,  you  would  have  at  once  told  them."  To 
emphasize  his  next  words  the  officer  pointed  at 
her:  "Under  no  circumstances,"  he  continued, 
"must  you  be  suspected.  If  they  should  take 
Briand  in  the  act,  should  they  have  even  the  least 
doubt  concerning  him,  you  must  repudiate  him 

10 


"Somewhere  in  France" 

entirely.  If  necessary,  to  keep  your  own  skirts 
clear,  it  would  be  your  duty  yourself  to  denounce 
him  as  a  spy." 

"Your  first  orders,"  said  the  woman,  "were  to 
tell  them  Briand  had  been  long  in  my  service; 
that  I  brought  him  from  my  home  in  Laon." 

"He  might  be  in  your  service  for  years,"  re 
turned  the  colonel,  "and  you  not  know  he  was  a 
German  agent." 

"If  to  save  myself  I  inform  upon  him,"  said 
Marie,  "of  course  you  know  you  will  lose  him." 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "A  wire 
less  operator,"  he  retorted,  "we  can  replace.  But 
for  you,  and  for  the  service  you  are  to  render  in 
Paris,  we  have  no  substitute.  You  must  not  be 
found  out.  You  are  invaluable." 

The  spy  inclined  her  head.  "I  thank  you," 
she  said. 

The  officer  sputtered  indignantly. 

"It  is  not  a  compliment,"  he  exclaimed;  "it  is 
an  order.  You  must  not  be  found  out!" 

Withdrawn  some  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
Paris  road,  the  chateau  stood  upon  a  wooded  hill. 
Except  directly  in  front,  trees  of  great  height 
surrounded  it.  The  tips  of  their  branches  brushed 
the  windows;  interlacing,  they  continued  until 
they  overhung  the  wall  of  the  estate.  Where  it 

ii 


:<  Somewhere  in  France  " 

ran  with  the  road  the  wall  gave  way  to  a  lofty 
gate  and  iron  fence,  through  which  those  passing 
could  see  a  stretch  of  noble  turf,  as  wide  as  a 
polo-field,  borders  of  flowers  disappearing  under 
the  shadows  of  the  trees;  and  the  chateau  itself, 
with  its  terrace,  its  many  windows,  its  high- 
pitched,  sloping  roof,  broken  by  towers  and 
turrets. 

Through  the  remainder  of  the  night  there  came 
from  the  road  to  those  in  the  chateau  the  roar 
and  rumbling  of  the  army  in  retreat.  It  moved 
without  panic,  disorder,  or  haste,  but  unceasingly. 
Not  for  an  instant  was  there  a  breathing-spell. 
And  when  the  sun  rose,  the  three  spies — the  two 
women  and  the  chauffeur — who  in  the  great  cha 
teau  were  now  alone,  could  see  as  well  as  hear 
the  gray  column  of  steel  rolling  past  below  them. 

The  spies  knew  that  the  gray  column  had 
reached  Claye,  had  stood  within  fifteen  miles  of 
Paris,  and  then  upon  Paris  had  turned  its  back. 
They  knew  also  that  the  reverberations  from  the 
direction  of  Meaux,  that  each  moment  grew  more 
loud  and  savage,  were  the  French  "seventy-fives" 
whipping  the  gra}^  column  forward.  Of  what 
they  felt  the  Germans  did  not  speak.  In  silence 
they  looked  at  each  other,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
Marie  was  bitterness  and  resolve. 

12 


;<  Some  where  in  France" 

Toward  noon  Marie  met  Anfossi  in  the  great 
drawing-room  that  stretched  the  length  of  the 
terrace  and  from  the  windows  of  which,  through 
the  park  gates,  they  could  see  the  Paris  road. 

"This,  that  is  passing  now,"  said  Marie,  "is 
the  last  of  our  rear-guard.  Go  to  your  tower," 
she  ordered,  "and  send  word  that  except  for  strag 
glers  and  the  wounded  our  column  has  just  passed 
through  Neufchelles,  and  that  any  moment  we 
expect  the  French."  She  raised  her  hand  im 
pressively.  "From  now,"  she  warned,  "we  speak 
French,  we  think  French,  we  are  French !" 

Anfossi,  or  Briand,  as  now  he  called  himself, 
addressed  her  in  that  language.  His  tone  was  bit 
ter.  "Pardon  my  lese-majesty,"  he  said,  "but  this 
chief  of  your  Intelligence  Department  is  a  dummer 
Mensch.  He  is  throwing  away  a  valuable  life." 

Marie  exclaimed  in  dismay.  She  placed  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  the  violet  eyes  filled  with 
concern. 

"Not  yours!"  she  protested. 

"Absolutely!"  returned  the  Italian.  "I  can 
send  nothing  by  this  knapsack  wireless  that  they 
will  not  learn  from  others;  from  airmen,  Uhlans, 
the  peasants  in  the  fields.  And  certainly  I  will 
be  caught.  Dead  I  am  dead,  but  alive  and  in 
Paris  the  opportunities  are  unending.  From  the 

13 


'*  Somewhere  in  France  " 

French  Legion  Etranger  I  have  my  honorable  dis 
charge.  I  am  an  expert  wireless  operator  and  in 
their  Signal  Corps  I  can  easily  find  a  place. 
Imagine  me,  then,  on  the  Eiffel  Tower.  From  the 
air  I  snatch  news  from  all  of  France,  from  the 
Channel,  the  North  Sea.  You  and  I  could  work 
together,  as  in  Rome.  But  here,  between  the 
lines,  with  a  pass  from  a  village  sous  prefet>  it  is 
ridiculous.  I  am  not  afraid  to  die.  But  to  die 
because  some  one  else  is  stupid,  that  is  hard." 

Marie  clasped  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"You  must  not  speak  of  death,"  she  cried; 
"you  know  I  must  carry  out  my  orders,  that  I 
must  force  you  to  take  this  risk.  And  you  know 
that  thought  of  harm  to  you  tortures  me!" 

Quickly  the  young  man  disengaged  his  hand. 
The  woman  exclaimed  with  anger. 

"Why  do  you  doubt  me  ?"  she  cried. 

Briand  protested  vehemently. 

"I  do  not  doubt  you." 

"My  affection,  then  ?"  In  a  whisper  that  car 
ried  with  it  the  feeling  of  a  caress  Marie  added 
softly:  "My  love?" 

The  young  man  protested  miserably.  "You 
make  it  very  hard,  mademoiselle,"  he  cried. 
"You  are  my  superior  officer,  I  am  your  servant. 
Who  am  I  that  I  should  share  with  others " 


!< 


Somewhere  in  France 


The  woman  interrupted  eagerly. 

"Ah,  you  are  jealous!"  she  cried.  "Is  that 
why  you  are  so  cruel  ?  But  when  I  tell  you  I  love 
you,  and  only  you,  can  you  not  feel  it  is  the  truth  ?" 

The  young  man  frowned  unhappily. 

"My  duty,  mademoiselle!"  he  stammered. 

With  an  exclamation  of  anger  Marie  left  him. 
As  the  door  slammed  behind  her,  the  young  man 
drew  a  deep  breath.  On  his  face  was  the  expres 
sion  of  ineffable  relief. 

In  the  hall  Marie  met  her  elderly  companion, 
Bertha,  now  her  aunt,  Madame  Benet. 

"I  heard  you  quarrelling,"  Bertha  protested. 
"It  is  most  indiscreet.  It  is  not  in  the  part  of 
the  Countess  d'Aurillac  that  she  makes  love  to 
her  chauffeur." 

Marie  laughed  noiselessly  and  drew  her  farther 
down  the  hall.  "He  is  imbecile  !"  she  exclaimed. 
"He  will  kill  me  with  his  solemn  face  and  his 
conceit.  I  make  love  to  him  —  yes  —  that  he  may 
work  the  more  willingly.  But  he  will  have  none 
of  it.  He  is  jealous  of  the  others." 

Madame  Benet  frowned. 

"He  resents  the  others,"  she  corrected.  "I  do 
not  blame  him.  He  is  a  gentleman  !" 

"And  the  others,"  demanded  Marie;  "were 
they  not  of  the  most  noble  families  of  Rome  ?" 

15 


''Somewhere  in  France73 

"I  am  old  and  I  am  ugly,"  said  Bertha,  "but  to 
me  Anfossi  is  always  as  considerate  as  he  is  to 
you  who  are  so  beautiful." 

"An  Italian  gentleman,"  returned  Marie,  "does 
not  serve  in  Belgian  Congo  unless  it  is  the  choice 
of  that  or  the  marble  quarries." 

"I  do  not  know  what  his  past  may  be,"  sighed 
Madame  Benet,  "nor  do  I  ask.  He  is  only  a 
number,  as  }^ou  and  I  are  only  numbers.  And 
I  beg  you  to  let  us  work  in  harmony.  At  such  a 
time  your  love-affairs  threaten  our  safety.  You 


must  wait." 


Marie  laughed  insolently.  "With  the  Du 
Barry,"  she  protested,  "I  can  boast  that  I  wait 
for  no  man." 

"No,"  replied  the  older  woman;  "you  pursue 
him!" 

Marie  would  have  answered  sharply,  but  on  the 
instant  her  interest  was  diverted.  For  one  week, 
by  day  and  night,  she  had  lived  in  a  world  peopled 
only  by  German  soldiers.  Beside  her  in  the  rail 
road  carriage,  on  the  station  platforms,  at  the 
windows  of  the  trains  that  passed  the  one  in  which 
she  rode,  at  the  grade  crossings,  on  the  bridges,  in 
the  roads  that  paralleled  the  tracks,  choking  the 
streets  of  the  villages  and  spread  over  the  fields  of 
grain,  she  had  seen  only  the  gray-green  uniforms. 

16 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

Even  her  professional  eye  no  longer  distinguished 
regiment  from  regiment,  dragoon  from  grenadier, 
Uhlan  from  Hussar  or  Landsturm.  Stripes,  in 
signia,  numerals,  badges  of  rank,  had  lost  their 
meaning.  Those  who  wore  them  no  longer  were 
individuals.  They  were  not  even  human.  During 
the  three  last  days  the  automobile,  like  a  motor- 
boat  fighting  the  tide,  had  crept  through  a  gray- 
green  river  of  men,  stained,  as  though  from  the 
banks,  by  mud  and  yellow  clay.  And  for  hours, 
while  the  car  was  blocked,  and  in  fury  the  engine 
raced  and  purred,  the  gray-green  river  had  rolled 
past  her,  slowly  but  as  inevitably  as  lava  down  the 
slope  of  a  volcano,  bearing  on  its  surface  faces 
with  staring  eyes,  thousands  and  thousands  of 
eyes,  some  fierce  and  bloodshot,  others  filled  with 
weariness,  homesickness,  pain.  At  night  she  still 
saw  them:  the  white  faces  under  the  sweat  and 
dust,  the  eyes  dumb,  inarticulate,  asking  the  an 
swer.  She  had  been  suffocated  by  German  sol 
diers,  by  the  mass  of  them,  engulfed  and  smoth 
ered;  she  had  stifled  in  a  land  inhabited  only  by 
gray-green  ghosts. 

And  suddenly,  as  though  a  miracle  had  been 
wrought,  she  saw  upon  the  lawn,  riding  toward 
her,  a  man  in  scarlet,  blue,  and  silver.  One  man 
riding  alone. 


;<  Somewhere  in  France  " 

Approaching  with  confidence,  but  alert;  his 
reins  fallen,  his  hands  nursing  his  carbine,  his 
eyes  searched  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  the  empty 
windows,  even  the  sun-swept  sky.  His  was  the 
new  face  at  the  door,  the  new  step  on  the  floor. 
And  the  spy  knew  had  she  beheld  an  army  corps 
it  would  have  been  no  more  significant,  no  more 
menacing,  than  the  solitary  chasseur  a  cheval 
scouting  in  advance  of  the  enemy. 

"We  are  saved !"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  irony. 
"Go  quickly,"  she  commanded,  "to  the  bedroom 
on  the  second  floor  that  opens  upon  the  staircase, 
so  that  you  can  see  all  who  pass.  You  are  too 
ill  to  travel.  They  must  find  you  in  bed." 

"And  you?"  said  Bertha. 

"I,"  cried  Marie  rapturously,  "hasten  to  wel 
come  our  preserver!" 

The  preserver  was  a  peasant  lad.  Under  the 
white  dust  his  cheeks  were  burned  a  brown-red, 
his  eyes,  honest  and  blue,  through  much  staring  at 
the  skies  and  at  horizon  lines,  were  puckered  and 
encircled  with  tiny  wrinkles.  Responsibility  had 
made  him  older  than  his  years,  and  in  speech 
brief.  With  the  beautiful  lady  who  with  tears  of 
joy  ran  to  greet  him,  and  who  in  an  ecstasy  of 
happiness  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  nose  of 
his  horse,  he  was  unimpressed.  He  returned  to 

18 


Somewhere  in  France 


)! 


her  her  papers  and  gravely  echoed  her  answers 
to  his  questions.  "This  chateau,"  he  repeated, 
"was  occupied  by  their  General  Staff;  they  have 
left  no  wounded  here;  you  saw  the  last  of  them 
pass  a  half-hour  since."  He  gathered  up  his 
reins. 

Marie  shrieked  in  alarm.  "You  will  not  leave 
us  ?"  she  cried. 

For  the  first  time  the  young  man  permitted  him 
self  to  smile.  "Others  arrive  soon,"  he  said. 

He  touched  his  shako,  wheeled  his  horse  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  had  come,  and  a  minute 
later  Marie  heard  the  hoofs  echoing  through  the 
empty  village. 

When  they  came,  the  others  were  more  sympa 
thetic.  Even  in  times  of  war  a  beautiful  woman 
is  still  a  beautiful  woman.  And  the  staff  officers 
who  moved  into  the  quarters  so  lately  occupied 
by  the  enemy  found  in  the  presence  of  the  Count 
ess  d'Aurillac  nothing  to  distress  them.  In  the 
absence  of  her  dear  friend,  Madame  Iverney,  the 
chatelaine  of  the  chateau,  she  acted  as  their  host 
ess.  Her  chauffeur  showed  the  company  cooks 
the  way  to  the  kitchen,  the  larder,  and  the  char 
coal-box.  She,  herself,  in  the  hands  of  General 
Andre  placed  the  keys  of  the  famous  wine-cellar, 
and  to  the  surgeon,  that  the  wounded  might  be 

19 


'*  Somewhere  in  France  '' 

freshly  bandaged,  intrusted  those  of  the  linen- 
closet.  After  the  indignities  she  had  suffered 
while  "detained"  by  les  Baches,  her  delight  and 
relief  at  again  finding  herself  under  the  protec 
tion  of  her  own  people  would  have  touched  a 
heart  of  stone.  And  the  hearts  of  the  staff  were 
not  of  stone.  It  was  with  regret  they  gave  the 
countess  permission  to  continue  on  her  way.  At 
this  she  exclaimed  with  gratitude.  She  assured 
them,  were  her  aunt  able  to  travel,  she  would 
immediately  depart. 

"In  Paris  she  will  be  more  comfortable  than 
here,"  said  the  kind  surgeon.  He  was  a  reservist, 
and  in  times  of  peace  a  fashionable  physician  and 
as  much  at  his  ease  in  a  boudoir  as  in  a  field  hos 
pital.  "Perhaps  if  I  saw  Madame  Benet?" 

At  the  suggestion  the  countess  was  overjoyed. 
But  they  found  Madame  Benet  in  a  state  of  com 
plete  collapse.  The  conduct  of  the  Germans  had 
brought  about  a  nervous  breakdown. 

"Though  the  bridges  are  destroyed  at  Meaux," 
urged  the  surgeon,  "even  with  a  detour,  you  can 
be  in  Paris  in  four  hours.  I  think  it  is  worth  the 
effort." 

But  the  mere  thought  of  the  journey  threw 
Madame  Benet  into  hysterics.  She  asked  only  to 
rest,  she  begged  for  an  opiate  to  make  her  sleep. 

20 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

She  begged  also  that  they  would  leave  the  door 
open,  so  that  when  she  dreamed  she  was  still  in  the 
hands  of  the  Germans,  and  woke  in  terror,  the 
sound  of  the  dear  French  voices  and  the  sight  of 
the  beloved  French  uniforms  might  reassure  her. 
She  played  her  part  well.  Concerning  her  Marie 
felt  not  the  least  anxiety.  But  toward  Briand,  the 
chauffeur,  the  new  arrivals  were  less  easily  satis 
fied. 

The  general  sent  his  adjutant  for  the  countess. 
When  the  adjutant  had  closed  the  door  General 
Andre  began  abruptly: 

"The  chauffeur  Briand,"  he  asked,  "you  know 
him;  you  can  vouch  for  him  ?" 

"But,  certainly!"  protested  Marie.  "He  is  an 
Italian." 

As  though  with  sudden  enlightenment,  Marie 
laughed.  It  was  as  if  now  in  the  suspicion  of  the 
officer  she  saw  a  certain  reasonableness.  "Briand 
was  so  long  in  the  Foreign  Legion  in  Algiers,"  she 
explained,  "where  my  husband  found  him,  that 
we  have  come  to  think  of  him  as  French.  As 
much  French  as  ourselves,  I  assure  you." 

The  general  and  his  adjutant  were  regarding 
each  other  questioningly. 

"Perhaps  I  should  tell  the  countess,"  began  the 

general,  "that  we  have  learned " 

21 


E<  Somewhere  in  France  " 

The  signal  from  the  adjutant  was  so  slight,  so 
swift,  that  Marie  barely  intercepted  it. 

The  lips  of  the  general  shut  together  like  the 
leaves  of  a  book.  To  show  the  interview  was  at 
an  end,  he  reached  for  a  pen. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  prompted  the  adjutant,  "Madame 
d'Aurillac  understands  the  man  must  not  know 
we  inquired  concerning  him." 

General  Andre  frowned  at  Marie. 

"Certainly  not !"  he  commanded.  "The  honest 
fellow  must  not  know  that  even  for  a  moment  he 
was  doubted." 

Marie  raised  the  violet  eyes  reprovingly. 

"I  trust,"  she  said  with  reproach,  "I  too  well 
understand  the  feelings  of  a  French  soldier  to  let 
him  know  his  loyalty  is  questioned." 

With  a  murmur  of  appreciation  the  officers 
bowed  and  with  a  gesture  of  gracious  pardon 
Marie  left  them. 

Outside  in  the  hall,  with  none  but  orderlies  to 
observe,  like  a  cloak  the  graciousness  fell  from 
her.  She  was  drawn  two  ways.  In  her  work 
Anfossi  was  valuable.  But  Anfossi  suspected 
was  less  than  of  no  value;  he  became  a  menace,  a 
death-warrant. 

General  Andre  had  said,  "We  have  learned — " 
22 


Somewhere  in  France 


>J 


and  the  adjutant  had  halted  him.  What  had  he 
learned  ?  To  know  that,  Marie  would  have  given 
much.  Still,  one  important  fact  comforted  her. 
Anfossi  alone  was  suspected.  Had  there  been 
concerning  herself  the  slightest  doubt,  they  cer 
tainly  would  not  have  allowed  her  to  guess  her 
companion  was  under  surveillance;  they  would 
not  have  asked  one  who  was  herself  suspected  to 
vouch  for  the  innocence  of  a  fellow  conspirator. 
Marie  found  the  course  to  follow  difficult.  With 
Anfossi  under  suspicion  his  usefulness  was  for 
the  moment  at  an  end;  and  to  accept  the  chance 
offered  her  to  continue  on  to  Paris  seemed  most 
wise.  On  the  other  hand,  if,  concerning  Anfossi, 
she  had  succeeded  in  allaying  their  doubts,  the 
results  most  to  be  desired  could  be  attained  only 
by  remaining  where  they  were. 

Their  position  inside  the  lines  was  of  the  great 
est  strategic  value.  The  rooms  of  the  servants 
were  under  the  roof,  and  that  Briand  should 
sleep  in  one  of  them  was  natural.  That  to  reach 
or  leave  his  room  he  should  constantly  be  ascend 
ing  or  descending  the  stairs  also  was  natural. 
The  field-wireless  outfit,  or,  as  he  had  disdain 
fully  described  it,  the  "knapsack"  wireless,  was 
situated  not  in  the  bedroom  he  had  selected  for 
himself,  but  in  one  adjoining.  At  other  times 

23 


:<  Somewhere  in  France'3 

this  was  occupied  by  the  maid  of  Madame  Iver- 
ney.  To  summon  her  maid  Madame  Iverney, 
from  her  apartment  on  the  second  floor,  had  but 
to  press  a  button.  And  it  was  in  the  apartment 
of  Madame  Iverney,  and  on  the  bed  of  that  lady, 
that  Madame  Benet  now  reclined.  When  through 
the  open  door  she  saw  an  officer  or  soldier  mount 
the  stairs,  she  pressed  the  button  that  rang  a 
bell  in  the  room  of  the  maid.  In  this  way,  long 
before  whoever  was  ascending  the  stairs  could 
reach  the  top  floor,  warning  of  his  approach  came 
to  Anfossi.  It  gave  him  time  to  replace  the  dust- 
board  over  the  fireplace  in  which  the  wireless  was 
concealed  and  to  escape  into  his  own  bedroom. 
The  arrangement  was  ideal.  And  already  in 
formation  picked  up  in  the  halls  below  by  Marie 
had  been  conveyed  to  Anfossi  to  relay  in  a  French 
cipher  to  the  German  General  Staff  at  Rheims. 

Marie  made  an  alert  and  charming  hostess.  To 
all  who  saw  her  it  was  evident  that  her  mind 
was  intent  only  upon  the  comfort  of  her  guests. 
Throughout  the  day  many  came  and  went,  but 
each  she  made  welcome;  to  each  as  he  departed 
she  called  "bonne  chance."  Efficient,  tireless, 
tactful,  she  was  everywhere:  in  the  dining-room, 
in  the  kitchen,  in  the  bedrooms,  for  the  wounded 
finding  mattresses  to  spread  in  the  gorgeous 

24 


:< 


Somewhere  in  France 


salons  of  the  champagne  prince;  for  the  soldier- 
chauffeurs  carrying  wine  into  the  courtyard, 
where  the  automobiles  panted  and  growled,  and 
the  arriving  and  departing  shrieked  for  right  of 
way.  At  all  times  an  alluring  person,  now  the 
one  woman  in  a  tumult  of  men,  her  smart  frock 
covered  by  an  apron,  her  head  and  arms  bare, 
undismayed  by  the  sight  of  the  wounded  or  by 
the  distant  rumble  of  the  guns,  the  Countess 
d'Aurillac  was  an  inspiring  and  beautiful  picture. 
The  eyes  of  the  officers,  young  and  old,  informed 
her  of  that  fact,  one  of  which  already  she  was 
well  aware.  By  the  morning  of  the  next  day  she 
was  accepted  as  the  owner  of  the  chateau.  And 
though  continually  she  reminded  the  staff  she 
was  present  only  as  the  friend  of  her  schoolmate, 
Madame  Iverney,  they  deferred  to  her  as  to  a 
hostess.  Many  of  them  she  already  saluted  by 
name,  and  to  those  who  with  messages  were  con 
stantly  motoring  to  and  from  the  front  at  Soissons 
she  was  particularly  kind.  Overnight  the  legend 
of  her  charm,  of  her  devotion  to  the  soldiers  of 
all  ranks,  had  spread  from  Soissons  to  Meaux, 
and  from  Meaux  to  Paris.  It  was  noon  of  that 
day  when  from  the  window  of  the  second  story 
Marie  saw  an  armored  automobile  sweep  into  the 
courtyard.  It  was  driven  by  an  officer,  young  and 

25 


'  Somewhere  in  France JJ 

appallingly  good-looking,  and,  as  was  obvious  by 
the  way  he  spun  his  car,  one  who  held  in  contempt 
both  the  law  of  gravity  and  death.  That  he  was 
some  one  of  importance  seemed  evident.  Before 
he  could  alight  the  adjutant  had  raced  to  meet 
him.  With  her  eye  for  detail  Marie  observed  that 
the  young  officer,  instead  of  imparting  informa 
tion,  received  it.  He  must,  she  guessed,  have 
just  arrived  from  Paris,  and  his  brother  officer 
either  was  telling  him  the  news  or  giving  him  his 
orders.  Whichever  it  might  be,  in  what  was  told 
him  the  new  arrival  was  greatly  interested.  One 
instant  in  indignation  his  gauntleted  fist  beat 
upon  the  steering-wheel,  the  next  he  smiled  with 
pleasure.  To  interpret  this  pantomime  was  dif 
ficult;  and,  the  better  to  inform  herself,  Marie 
descended  the  stairs. 

As  she  reached  the  lower  hall  the  two  officers 
entered.  To  the  spy  the  man  last  to  arrive  was 
always  the  one  of  greatest  importance;  and  Marie 
assured  herself  that  through  her  friend,  the  ad 
jutant,  to  meet  with  this  one  would  prove  easy. 

But  the  chauffeur  commander  of  the  armored 
car  made  it  most  difficult.  At  sight  of  Marie, 
much  to  her  alarm,  as  though  greeting  a  dear 
friend,  he  snatched  his  kepi  from  his  head  and 
sprang  toward  her. 

26 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

"The  major,"  he  cried,  "told  me  you  were  here, 
that  you  are  Madame  d'Aurillac."  His  eyes 
spoke  his  admiration.  In  delight  he  beamed  upon 
her.  "I  might  have  known  it!"  he  murmured. 
With  the  confidence  of  one  who  is  sure  he  brings 
good  news,  he  laughed  happily.  "And  I,"  he 
cried,  "am  'Pierrot'!" 

Who  the  devil  "Pierrot"  might  be  the  spy 
could  not  guess.  She  knew  only  that  she  wished 
by  a  German  shell  "Pierrot"  and  his  car  had 
been  blown  to  tiny  fragments.  Was  it  a  trap, 
she  asked  herself,  or  was  the  handsome  youth 
really  some  one  the  Countess  d'Aurillac  should 
know.  But,  as  from  his  introducing  himself  it 
was  evident  he  could  not  know  that  lady  very 
well,  Marie  took  courage  and  smiled. 

e Which  'Pierrot'?"  she  parried. 

"Pierre  Thierry!"  cried  the  youth. 

To  the  relief  of  Marie  he  turned  upon  the  adjutant 
and  to  him  explained  who  Pierre  Thierry  might  be. 

"Paul  d'Aurillac,"  he  said,  "is  my  dearest 
friend.  When  he  married  this  charming  lady  I 
was  stationed  in  Algiers,  and  but  for  the  war  I 
might  never  have  met  her." 

To  Marie,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart  in  a  most 
charming  manner,  he  bowed.  His  admiration  he 
made  no  effort  to  conceal. 

27 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

"And  so,"  he  said,  "I  know  why  there  is  war !" 

The  adjutant  smiled  indulgently,  and  departed 
on  his  duties,  leaving  them  alone.  The  hand 
some  eyes  of  Captain  Thierry  were  raised  to  the 
violet  eyes  of  Marie.  They  appraised  her  boldly 
and  as  boldly  expressed  their  approval. 

In  burlesque  the  young  man  exclaimed  indig 
nantly:  "Paul  deceived  me !"  he  cried.  "He  told 
me  he  had  married  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Laon.  He  has  married  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  France!" 

To  Marie  this  was  not  impertinence,  but  gal 
lantry. 

This  was  a  language  she  understood,  and  this 
was  the  type  of  man,  because  he  was  the  least 
difficult  to  manage,  she  held  most  in  contempt. 

"But  about  you,  Paul  did  not  deceive  me,"  she 
retorted.  In  apparent  confusion  her  eyes  refused 
to  meet  his.  "He  told  me  'Pierrot'  was  a  most 
dangerous  man!" 

She  continued  hurriedly.  With  wifely  splicitude 
she  asked  concerning  Paul.  She  explained  that 
for  a  week  she  had  been  a  prisoner  in  the  chateau, 
and,  since  the  mobilization,  of  her  husband  save 
that  he  was  with  his  regiment  in  Paris  she  had 
heard  nothing.  Captain  Thierry  was  able  to 
give  her  later  news.  Only  the  day  previous,  on 

28 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

the  boulevards,  he  had  met  Count  d'Aurillac. 
He  was  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  as  Thierry  was 
at  once  motoring  back  to  Paris  he  would  give 
Paul  news  of  their  meeting.  He  hoped  he  might 
tell  him  that  soon  his  wife  also  would  be  in  Paris. 
Marie  explained  that  only  the  illness  of  her  aunt 
prevented  her  from  that  same  day  joining  her 
husband.  Her  manner  became  serious. 

"And  what  other  news  have  you?"  she  asked. 
"Here  on  the  firing-line  we  know  less  of  what  is 
going  forward  than  you  in  Paris." 

So  Pierre  Thierry  told  her  all  he  knew.  They 
were  preparing  despatches  he  was  at  once  to  carry 
back  to  the  General  Staff,  and,  for  the  moment, 
his  time  was  his  own.  How  could  he  better  em 
ploy  it  than  in  talking  of  the  war  with  a  patriotic 
and  charming  French  woman  ? 

In  consequence  Marie  acquired  a  mass  of  facts, 
gossip,  and  guesses.  From  these  she  mentally 
selected  such  information  as,  to  her  employers 
across  the  Aisne,  would  be  of  vital  interest. 

And  to  rid  herself  of  Thierry  and  on  the  fourth 
floor  seek  Anfossi  was  now  her  only  wish.  But, 
in  attempting  this,  by  the  return  of  the  adjutant 
she  was  delayed.  To  Thierry  the  adjutant  gave 
a  sealed  envelope. 

"Thirty-one,  Boulevard  des  Invalides,"  he  said. 
29 


''  Somewhere  in  France'3 

With  a  smile  he  turned  to  Marie.  "And  you  will 
accompany  him !" 

"I !"  exclaimed  Marie.  She  was  sick  with  sud 
den  terror. 

But  the  tolerant  smile  of  the  adjutant  reassured 
her. 

"The  count,  your  husband,"  he  explained,  "has 
learned  of  your  detention  here  by  the  enemy,  and 
he  has  besieged  the  General  Staff  to  have  you  con 
voyed  safely  to  Paris."  The  adjutant  glanced  at  a 
field  telegram  he  held  open  in  his  hand.  "He 
asks,"  he  continued,  "that  you  be  permitted  to 
return  in  the  car  of  his  friend,  Captain  Thierry, 
and  that  on  arriving  you  join  him  at  the  Grand 
Hotel." 

Thierry  exclaimed  with  delight. 

"But  how  charming  !"  he  cried.  "To-night  you 
must  both  dine  with  me  at  La  Rue's."  He  sa 
luted  his  superior  officer.  "Some  petrol,  sir,"  he 
said.  "And  I  am  ready."  To  Marie  he  added: 
"The  car  will  be  at  the  steps  in  five  minutes." 
He  turned  and  left  them. 

The  thoughts  of  Marie,  snatching  at  an  excuse 
for  delay,  raced  madly.  The  danger  of  meeting 
the  Count  d'Aurillac,  her  supposed  husband,  did 
not  alarm  her.  The  Grand  Hotel  has  many  exits, 
and,  even  before  they  reached  it,  for  leaving  the 

30 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

car  she  could  invent  an  excuse  that  the  gallant 
Thierry  would  not  suspect.  But  what  now  con 
cerned  her  was  how,  before  she  was  whisked 
away  to  Paris,  she  could  convey  to  Anfossi 
the  information  she  had  gathered  from  Thierry. 
First,  of  a  woman  overcome  with  delight  at  being 
reunited  with  her  husband  she  gave  an  excellent 
imitation;  then  she  exclaimed  in  distress:  "But 
my  aunt,  Madame  Benet!"  she  cried.  "I  can 
not  leave  her!" 

"The  Sisters  of  St.  Francis,"  said  the  adjutant, 
"arrive  within  an  hour  to  nurse  the  wounded. 
They  will  care  also  for  your  aunt." 

Marie  concealed  her  chagrin.  "Then  I  will  at 
once  prepare  to  go,"  she  said. 

The  adjutant  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper. 
"Your  laisser-passer  to  Paris,"  he  said.  "You 
leave  in  five  minutes,  madame!" 

As  temporary  hostess  of  the  chateau  Marie  was 
free  to  visit  any  part  of  it,  and  as  she  passed  her 
door  a  signal  from  Madame  Benet  told  her  that 
Anfossi  was  on  the  fourth  floor,  that  he  was  at 
work,  and  that  the  coast  was  clear.  Softly,  in  the 
felt  slippers  she  always  wore,  as  she  explained,  in 
order  not  to  disturb  the  wounded,  she  mounted 
the  staircase.  In  her  hand  she  carried  the  house 
keeper's  keys,  and  as  an  excuse  it  was  her  plan  to 


:<  Somewhere  in  France  " 

return  with  an  armful  of  linen  for  the  arriving 
Sisters.  But  Marie  never  reached  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  When  her  eyes  rose  to  the  level  of  the 
fourth  floor  she  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  At  what 
she  saw  terror  gripped  her,  bound  her  hand  and 
foot,  and  turned  her  blood  to  ice. 

At  her  post  for  an  instant  Madame  Benet  had 
slept,  and  an  officer  of  the  staff,  led  by  curiosity, 
chance,  or  suspicion,  had,  unobserved  and  unan 
nounced,  mounted  to  the  fourth  floor.  When 
Marie  saw  him  he  was  in  front  of  the  room  that 
held  the  wireless.  His  back  was  toward  her,  but 
she  saw  that  he  was  holding  the  door  to  the  room 
ajar,  that  his  eye  was  pressed  to  the  opening, 
and  that  through  it  he  had  pushed  the  muzzle  of 
his  automatic.  What  would  be  the  fate  of  An 
fossi  Marie  knew.  Nor  did  she  for  an  instant 
consider  it.  Her  thoughts  were  of  her  own  safety; 
that  she  might  live.  Not  that  she  might  still 
serve  the  Wilhelmstrasse,  the  Kaiser,  or  the 
Fatherland;  but  that  she  might  live.  In  a  mo 
ment  Anfossi  would  be  denounced,  the  chateau 
would  ring  with  the  alarm,  and,  though  she  knew 
Anfossi  would  not  betray  her,  by  others  she  might 
be  accused.  To  avert  suspicion  from  herself  she 
saw  only  one  way  open.  She  must  be  the  first  to 
denounce  Anfossi. 

32 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

Like  a  deer  she  leaped  down  the  marble  stairs 
and,  in  a  panic  she  had  no  need  to  assume,  burst 
into  the  presence  of  the  staff. 

"Gentlemen!"  she  gasped,  "my  servant — the 
chauffeur — Briand  is  a  spy !  There  is  a  German 
wireless  in  the  chateau.  He  is  using  it !  I  have 
seen  him."  With  exclamations,  the  officers  rose 
to  their  feet.  General  Andre  alone  remained 
seated.  General  Andre  was  a  veteran  of  many 
Colonial  wars:  Cochin-China,  Algiers,  Morocco. 
The  great  war,  when  it  came,  found  him  on  duty 
in  the  Intelligence  Department.  His  aquiline 
nose,  bristling  white  eyebrows,  and  flashing,  rest 
less  eyes  gave  him  his  nickname  of  I'Aigle. 

In  amazement,  the  flashing  eyes  were  now 
turned  upon  Marie.  He  glared  at  her  as  though 
he  thought  she  suddenly  had  flown  mad. 

"A  German  wireless!"  he  protested.  "It  is 
impossible!" 

"I  was  on  the  fourth  floor,"  panted  Marie,  "col 
lecting  linen  for  the  Sisters.  In  the  room  next  to 
the  linen  closet  I  heard  a  strange  buzzing  sound. 
I  opened  the  door  softly.  I  saw  Briand  with  his 
back  to  me  seated  by  an  instrument.  There  were 
receivers  clamped  to  his  ears !  My  God !  The 
disgrace.  The  disgrace  to  my  husband  and  to 
me,  who  vouched  for  him  to  you !"  Apparently 

33 


!<  Somewhere  in  France  '3 

in  an  agony  of  remorse,  the  fingers  of  the  woman 
laced  and  interlaced.  "I  cannot  forgive  myself!" 

The  officers  moved  toward  the  door,  but  Gen 
eral  Andre  halted  them.  Still  in  a  tone  of  in 
credulity,  he  demanded:  "When  did  you  see 
this?" 

Marie  knew  the  question  was  coming,  knew  she 
must  explain  how  she  saw  Briand,  and  yet  did 
not  see  the  staff  officer  who,  with  his  prisoner, 
might  now  at  any  instant  appear.  She  must 
make  it  plain  she  had  discovered  the  spy  and 
left  the  upper  part  of  the  house  before  the  officer 
had  visited  it.  When  that  was  she  could  not 
know,  but  the  chance  was  that  he  had  preceded 
her  by  only  a  few  minutes. 

"When  did  you  see  this  ?"  repeated  the  general. 

"But  just  now,"  cried  Marie;  "not  ten  min 
utes  since." 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  at  once  ?" 

"I  was  afraid,"  replied  Marie.  "If  I  moved  I 
was  afraid  he  might  hear  me,  and  he,  knowing  I 
would  expose  him,  would  kill  me — and  so  escape 
you!"  There  was  an  eager  whisper  of  approval. 
For  silence,  General  Andre  slapped  his  hand  upon 
the  table. 

"Then,"  continued  Marie,  "I  understood  with 
the  receivers  on  his  ears  he  could  not  have  heard 

34 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

me  open  the  door,  nor  could  he  hear  me  leave,  and 
I  ran  to  my  aunt.  The  thought  that  we  had  har 
bored  such  an  animal  sickened  me,  and  I  was 
weak  enough  to  feel  faint.  But  only  for  an  in 
stant.  Then  I  came  here."  She  moved  swiftly 
to  the  door.  "Let  me  show  you  the  room,"  she 
begged;  "you  can  take  him  in  the  act."  Her 
eyes,  wild  with  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  swept 
the  circle.  "Will  you  come?"  she  begged. 

Unconscious  of  the  crisis  he  interrupted,  the 
orderly  on  duty  opened  the  door. 

"Captain  Thierry's  compliments,"  he  recited 
mechanically,  "and  is  he  to  delay  longer  for 
Madame  d'Aurillac?" 

With  a  sharp  gesture  General  Andre  waved 
Marie  toward  the  door.  Without  rising,  he  in 
clined  his  head.  "Adieu,  madame,"  he  said. 
"We  act  at  once  upon  your  information.  I  thank 
you !" 

As  she  crossed  from  the  hall  to  the  terrace,  the 
ears  of  the  spy  were  assaulted  by  a  sudden  tumult 
of  voices.  They  were  raised  in  threats  and 
curses.  Looking  back,  she  saw  Anfossi  descend 
ing  the  stairs.  His  hands  were  held  above  his 
head;  behind  him,  with  his  automatic,  the  staff 
officer  she  had  surprised  on  the  fourth  floor  was 
driving  him  forward.  Above  the  clenched  fists 

35 


'*  Somewhere  in  France  " 

of  the  soldiers  that  ran  to  meet  him,  the  eyes  of 
Anfossi  were  turned  toward  her.  His  face  was 
expressionless.  His  eyes  neither  accused  nor  re 
proached.  And  with  the  joy  of  one  who  has 
looked  upon  and  then  escaped  the  guillotine,  Marie 
ran  down  the  steps  to  the  waiting  automobile. 
With  a  pretty  cry  of  pleasure  she  leaped  into  the 
seat  beside  Thierry.  Gayly  she  threw  out  her 
arms.  "To  Paris!"  she  commanded.  The  hand 
some  eyes  of  Thierry,  eloquent  with  admiration, 
looked  back  into  hers.  He  stooped,  threw  in  the 
clutch,  and  the  great  gray  car,  with  the  machine 
gun  and  its  crew  of  privates  guarding  the  rear, 
plunged  through  the  park. 

"To  Paris!"  echoed  Thierry. 

In  the  order  in  which  Marie  had  last  seen 
them,  Anfossi  and  the  staff  officer  entered  the 
room  of  General  Andre,  and  upon  the  soldiers 
in  the  hall  the  door  was  shut.  The  face  of  the 
staff  officer  was  grave,  but  his  voice  could  not 
conceal  his  elation. 

"My  general,"  he  reported,  "I  found  this  man 
in  the  act  of  giving  information  to  the  enemy. 
There  is  a  wireless " 

General  Andre  rose  slowly.  He  looked  neither 
at  the  officer  nor  at  his  prisoner.  With  frowning 
eyes  he  stared  down  at  the  maps  upon  his  table. 

36 


"Somewhere  in  France' 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted.  "Some  one  has  al 
ready  told  me."  He  paused,  and  then,  as  though 
recalling  his  manners,  but  still  without  raising  his 
eyes,  he  added:  "You  have  done  well,  sir." 

In  silence  the  officers  of  the  staff  stood  motion 
less.  With  surprise  they  noted  that,  as  yet, 
neither  in  anger  nor  curiosity  had  General  Andre 
glanced  at  the  prisoner.  But  of  the  presence  of 
the  general  the  spy  was  most  acutely  conscious. 
He  stood  erect,  his  arms  still  raised,  but  his  body 
strained  forward,  and  on  the  averted  eyes  of  the 
general  his  own  were  fixed. 

In  an  agony  of  supplication  they  asked  a 
question. 

At  last,  as  though  against  his  wish,  toward  the 
spy  the  general  turned  his  head,  and  their  eyes 
met.  And  still  General  Andre  was  silent.  Then 
the  arms  of  the  spy,  like  those  of  a  runner  who 
has  finished  his  race  and  breasts  the  tape  ex 
hausted,  fell  to  his  sides.  In  a  voice  low  and 
vibrant  he  spoke  his  question. 

"It  has  been  so  long,  sir,"  he  pleaded.  "May 
I  not  come  home  ?" 

General  Andre  turned  to  the  astonished  group 
surrounding  him.  His  voice  was  hushed  like 
that  of  one  who  speaks  across  an  open  grave. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "my  children,"  he 
37 


:<  Somewhere  in  France  " 

added.  "A  German  spy,  a  woman,  involved  in  a 
scandal  your  brother  in  arms,  Henri  Ravignac. 
His  honor,  he  thought,  was  concerned,  and  with 
out  honor  he  refused  to  live.  To  prove  him  guilt 
less  his  younger  brother  Charles  asked  leave  to 
seek  out  the  woman  who  had  betrayed  Henri,  and 
by  us  was  detailed  on  secret  service.  He  gave 
up  home,  family,  friends.  He  lived  in  exile,  in 
poverty,  at  all  times  in  danger  of  a  swift  and 
ignoble  death.  In  the  War  Office  we  know  him 
as  one  who  has  given  to  his  country  services  she 
cannot  hope  to  reward.  For  she  cannot  return 
to  him  the  years  he  has  lost.  She  cannot  return 
to  him  his  brother.  But  she  can  and  will  clear 
the  name  of  Henri  Ravignac,  and  upon  his  brother 
Charles  bestow  promotion  and  honors." 

The  general  turned  and  embraced  the  spy. 
"My  children,"  he  said,  "welcome  your  brother. 
He  has  come  home." 

Before  the  car  had  reached  the  fortifications, 
Marie  Gessler  had  arranged  her  plan  of  escape. 
She  had  departed  from  the  chateau  without  even 
a  hand-bag,  and  she  would  say  that  before  the 
shops  closed  she  must  make  purchases. 

Le  Printemps  lay  in  their  way,  and  she  asked 
that,  when  they  reached  it,  for  a  moment  she  might 
alight.  Captain  Thierry  readily  gave  permission. 

38 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

the  department  store  it  would  be  most 
easy  to  disappear,  and  in  anticipation  Marie 
smiled  covertly.  Nor  was  the  picture  of  Captain 
Thierry  impatiently  waiting  outside  unamusing. 

But  before  Le  Printemps  was  approached,  the 
car  turned  sharply  down  a  narrow  street.  On 
one  side,  along  its  entire  length,  ran  a  high  gray 
wall,  grim  and  forbidding.  In  it  was  a  green  gate 
studded  with  iron  bolts.  Before  this  the  auto 
mobile  drew  suddenly  to  a  halt.  The  crew  of 
the  armored  car  tumbled  off  the  rear  seat,  and 
one  of  them  beat  upon  the  green  gate.  Marie 
felt  a  hand  of  ice  clutch  at  her  throat.  But  she 
controlled  herself. 

"And  what  is  this?"  she  cried  gayly. 

At  her  side  Captain  Thierry  was  smiling  down 
at  her,  but  his  smile  was  hateful. 

"It  is  the  prison  of  St.  Lazare,"  he  said.  "It 
is  not  becoming,"  he  added  sternly,  "that  the 
name  of  the  Countess  d'Aurillac  should  be  made 
common  as  the  Paris  road!" 

Fighting  for  her  life,  Marie  thrust  herself  against 
him;  her  arm  that  throughout  the  journey  had 
rested  on  the  back  of  the  driving-seat  caressed 
his  shoulders;  her  lips  and  the  violet  eyes  were 
close  to  his. 

"Why  should  you  care  ?"  she  whispered  fiercely. 
39 


"  Somewhere  in  France  " 

"You  have  me!  Let  the  Count  d'Aurillac  look 
after  the  honor  of  his  wife  himself." 

The  charming  Thierry  laughed  at  her  mock 
ingly. 

"He  means  to,"  he  said.  "I  am  the  Count 
d'Aurillac!" 


40 


PLAYING  DEAD 


PLAYING  DEAD 

TO  Fate,  "Jimmie"  Blagwin  had  signalled  the 
"supreme  gesture."  He  had  accomplished 
the  Great  Adventure.  He  was  dead. 

And  as  he  sat  on  his  trunk  in  the  tiny  hall  bed 
room,  and  in  the  afternoon  papers  read  of  his  sui 
cide,  his  eyes  were  lit  with  pleasurable  pride.  Not 
at  the  nice  things  the  obituaries  told  of  his  past, 
but  because  his  act  of  self-sacrifice,  so  carefully 
considered,  had  been  carried  to  success.  As  he 
read  Jimmie  smiled  with  self-congratulation.  He 
felt  glad  he  was  alive;  or,  to  express  it  differently, 
felt  glad  he  was  dead.  And  he  hoped  Jeanne,  his 
late  wife,  now  his  widow,  also  would  be  glad. 
But  not  too  glad.  In  return  for  relieving  Jeanne 
of  his  presence  he  hoped  she  might  at  times  re 
member  him  with  kindness.  Of  her  always  would 
he  think  gratefully  and  tenderly.  Nothing  could 
end  his  love  for  Jeanne — not  even  this  suicide. 

As  children,  in  winter  in  New  York,  in  summer 
on  Long  Island,  Jimmie  Blagwin  and  Jeanne 
Thayer  had  grown  up  together.  They  had  the 
same  tastes  in  sports,  the  same  friends,  the  same 

43 


Playing  Dead 

worldly  advantages.  Neither  of  them  had  many 
ideas.  It  was  after  they  married  that  Jeanne  be 
gan  to  borrow  ideas  and  doubt  the  advantages. 

For  the  first  three  years  after  the  wedding,  in 
the  old  farmhouse  which  Jimmie  had  made  over 
into  a  sort  of  idealized  country  club,  Jeanne 
lived  a  happy,  healthy,  out-of-door  existence.  To 
occupy  her  there  were  Jimmie's  hunters  and  a 
pack  of  joyous  beagles;  for  tennis,  at  week-ends 
Jimmie  filled  the  house  with  men,  and  during 
the  week  they  both  played  polo,  he  with  the 
Meadow  Brooks  and  she  with  the  Meadow  Larks, 
and  the  golf  links  of  Piping  Rock  ran  almost  to 
their  lodge-gate.  Until  Proctor  Maddox  took  a 
cottage  at  Glen  Cove  and  joined  the  golf-club, 
than  Jeanne  and  Jimmie  on  all  Long  Island  no 
couple  were  so  content. 

At  that  time  Proctor  Maddox  was  the  young 
and  brilliant  editor  of  the  Wilderness  magazine, 
the  wilderness  being  the  world  we  live  in,  and  the 
Voice  crying  in  it  the  voice  of  Proctor  Maddox. 
He  was  a  Socialist  and  Feminist,  he  flirted  with 
syndicalism,  and  he  had  a  good  word  even  for  the 
I.  W.  W.  He  was  darkly  handsome,  his  eye 
glasses  were  fastened  to  a  black  ribbon,  and  he 
addressed  his  hostess  as  "dear  lady."  He  was 
that  sort.  Women  described  him  as  "dangerous," 

44 


Playing  Dead 

and  liked  him  because  he  talked  of  things  they 
did  not  understand,  and  because  he  told  each  of 
them  it  was  easy  to  see  it  would  be  useless  to 
flatter  her.  The  men  did  not  like  him.  The 
oldest  and  wealthiest  members  of  the  club  pro 
tested  that  the  things  Maddox  said  in  his  maga 
zine  should  exclude  him  from  the  society  of  law- 
abiding,  money-making  millionaires.  But  Freddy 
Bayliss,  the  leader  of  the  younger  crowd,  said 
that,  to  him,  it  did  not  matter  what  Maddox 
said  in  the  Wilderness,  so  long  as  he  stayed  there. 
It  was  Bayliss  who  christened  him  "the  Voice." 

Until  the  Voice  came  to  Glen  Cove  all  that 
troubled  Jeanne  was  that  her  pony  had  sprained 
a  tendon,  and  that  in  the  mixed  doubles  her  eye 
was  ofF  the  ball.  Proctor  Maddox  suggested  other 
causes  for  discontent. 

"What  does  it  matter,"  he  demanded,  "whether 
you  hit  a  rubber  ball  inside  a  whitewashed  line, 
or  not  ?  That  energy,  that  brain,  that  influence 
of  yours  over  others,  that  something  men  call — 
charm,  should  be  exerted  to  emancipate  yourself 
and  your  unfortunate  sisters." 

"Emaciate  myself,"  protested  Jeanne  eagerly; 
"do  you  mean  I'm  taking  on  flesh  ?" 

"I  said  'emancipate/  "  corrected  Maddox.  "I 
mean  to  free  yourself  of  the  bonds  that  bind  your 

45 


Playing  Dead 

sex;  for  instance,  the  bonds  of  matrimony.  It  is 
obsolete,  barbarous.  It  makes  of  women — slaves 
and  chattels." 

"But,  since  I  married,  I'm  much  freer,"  pro 
tested  Jeanne.  "Mother  never  let  me  play  polo, 
or  ride  astride.  But  Jimmie  lets  me.  He  says 
cross  saddle  is  safer." 

"Jimmie  lets  you!"  mocked  the  Voice.  "That 
is  exactly  what  I  mean.  Why  should  you  go  to 
him,  or  to  any  man,  for  permission  ?  Are  you  his 
cook  asking  for  an  evening  out  ?  No !  You  are  a 
free  soul,  and  your  duty  is  to  keep  your  soul  from 
bondage.  There  are  others  in  the  world  besides 
your  husband.  What  of  your  duty  to  them  ? 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  them  ?" 

"No,  I  have  not,"  confessed  Jeanne.  "Who 
do  you  mean  by  'them'  ?  Shop-girls,  and  white 
slaves,  and  women  who  want  to  vote  ?" 

"I  mean  the  great  army  of  the  discontented," 
explained  the  Voice. 

"And  should  I  be  discontented  ?"  asked  Jeanne. 
"Tell  me  why." 

So,  then  and  on  many  other  occasions,  Maddox 
told  her  why.  It  was  one  of  the  best  things  he 
did. 

People  say,  when  the  triangle  forms,  the  hus 
band  always  is  the  last  to  see.  But,  if  he  loves 


Playing  Dead 

his  wife,  he  is  the  first.  And  after  three  years  of 
being  married  to  Jeanne,  and,  before  that,  five 
years  of  wanting  to  marry  Jeanne,  Jimmie  loved 
her  devotedly,  entirely,  slavishly.  It  was  the 
best  thing  he  did.  So,  when  to  Jeanne  the  change 
came,  her  husband  recognized  it.  What  the  cause 
was  he  could  not  fathom;  he  saw  only  that,  in 
spite  of  her  impatient  denials,  she  was  discon 
tented,  restless,  unhappy.  Thinking  it  might  be 
that  for  too  long  they  had  gone  "back  to  the 
land,"  he  suggested  they  might  repeat  their 
honeymoon  in  Paris.  The  idea  was  received  only 
with  alarm.  Concerning  Jeanne,  Jimmie  decided 
secretly  to  consult  a  doctor.  Meanwhile  he 
bought  her  a  new  hunter. 

The  awakening  came  one  night  at  a  dance  at  the 
country  club.  That  evening  Jeanne  was  filled  with 
unrest,  and  with  Jimmie  seemed  particularly  ag 
grieved.  Whatever  he  said  gave  offense;  even  his 
eagerness  to  conciliate  her  was  too  obvious.  With 
the  other  men  who  did  not  dance,  Jimmie  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  when,  over  the  heads  of 
those  looking  in  from  the  veranda,  he  saw  the 
white  face  and  black  eyes  of  Maddox.  Jimmie 
knew  Maddox  did  not  dance,  at  those  who  danced 
had  heard  him  jeer,  and  his  presence  caused  him 
mild  surprise.  The  editor,  leaning  forward,  un- 

47 


Playing  Dead 

conscious  that  he  was  conspicuous,  searched  the 
ballroom  with  his  eyes.  They  were  anxious,  un 
satisfied;  they  gave  to  his  pale  face  the  look  of  one 
who  is  famished.  Then  suddenly  his  face  lit  and 
he  nodded  eagerly.  Following  the  direction  of 
his  eyes,  Jimmie  saw  his  wife,  over  the  shoulder 
of  her  partner,  smiling  at  Maddox.  Her  face  was 
radiant;  a  great  peace  had  descended  upon  it. 

Jimmie  knew  just  as  surely  as  though  Jeanne 
had  told  him.  He  walked  out  and  sat  down  on 
the  low  wall  of  the  terrace  with  his  back  to  the 
club-house  and  his  legs  dangling.  Below  him  in 
the  moonlight  lay  the  great  basin  of  the  golf 
links,  the  white  rectangle  of  the  polo  fields  with 
the  gallows-like  goals,  and  on  a  hill  opposite, 
above  the  tree-tops,  the  chimneys  of  his  house. 
He  was  down  for  a  tennis  match  the  next  morn 
ing,  and  the  sight  of  his  home  suggested  to  him 
only  that  he  ought  to  be  in  bed  and  asleep. 

Then  he  recognized  that  he  never  would  sleep 
again.  He  went  over  it  from  the  beginning,  put 
ting  the  pieces  together.  He  never  had  liked 
Maddox,  but  he  had  explained  that  by  the  fact 
that,  as  Maddox  was  so  much  more  intelligent 
than  he,  there  could  be  little  between  them. 
And  it  was  because  every  one  said  he  was  so  in 
telligent  that  he  had  looked  upon  his  devotion  to 


Playing  Dead 

Jeanne  rather  as  a  compliment.  He  wondered 
why  already  it  had  not  been  plain  to  him.  When 
Jeanne,  who  mocked  at  golf  as  a  refuge  for  old 
age,  spent  hours  with  Maddox  on  the  links; 
when,  after  she  had  declined  to  ride  with  her 
husband,  on  his  return  he  would  find  her  at  tea 
with  Maddox  in  front  of  the  wood  fire. 

That  night,  when  he  drove  Jeanne  home,  she 
still  was  joyous,  radiant;  it  was  now  she  who 
chided  him  upon  being  silent. 

He  waited  until  noon  the  next  morning  and  then 
asked  her  if  it  were  true.  It  was  true.  Jeanne 
thanked  him  for  coming  to  her  so  honestly  and 
straightforwardly.  She  also  had  been  straightfor 
ward  and  honest.  They  had  waited,  she  said,  not 
through  deceit  but  only  out  of  consideration  for 
him. 

"Before  we  told  you,"  Jeanne  explained,  "we 
wanted  to  be  quite  sure  that  7  was  sure." 

The  "we"  hurt  Jimmie  like  the  stab  of  a  rusty 
knife. 

But  he  said  only:  "And  you  are  sure?  Three 
years  ago  you  were  sure  you  loved  me" 

Jeanne's  eyes  were  filled  with  pity,  but  she 
said:  "That  was  three  years  ago.  I  was  a  child, 
and  now  I  am  a  woman.  In  many  ways  you  have 
stood  still  and  I  have  gone  on." 

49 


Playing  Dead 

"That's  true,"  said  Jimmie;  "you  always  were 
too  good  for  me." 

"No  woman  is  good  enough  for  you,"  returned 
Jeanne  loyally.  "And  your  brains  are  just  as 
good  as  mine,  only  you  haven't  used  them.  I 
have  questioned  and  reached  out  and  gained 
knowledge  of  all  kinds.  I  am  a  Feminist  and 
you  are  not.  If  you  were  you  would  under 
stand." 

"I  don't  know  even  what  a  Feminist  is,"  said 
Jimmie,  "but  I'm  glad  I'm  not  one." 

"A  Feminist  is  one,"  explained  Jeanne,  "who 
does  not  think  her  life  should  be  devoted  to  one 
person,  but  to  the  world." 

Jimmie  shook  his  head  and  smiled  miserably. 

"  You  are  my  world,"  he  said.  "The  only  world 
I  know.  The  only  world  I  want  to  know." 

He  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  leaned  his  elbows 
on  the  mantel,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 
But  that  his  distress  might  not  hurt  Jeanne,  he 
turned  and,  to  give  her  courage,  smiled. 

"If  you  are  going  to  devote  yourself  to  the 
world,"  he  asked,  "and  not  to  any  one  person, 
why  can't  I  sort  of  trail  along  ?  Why  need  you 
leave  me  and  go  with — with  some  one  else?" 

"For  the  work  I  hope  to  do,"  answered  Jeanne, 
"you  and  I  are  not  suited.  But  Proctor  and  I 


Playing  Dead 

are  suited.  He  says  he  never  met  a  woman  who 
understands  him  as  I  do." 

"Hell!"  said  Jimmie.  After  that  he  did  not 
speak  for  some  time.  Then  he  asked  roughly: 

"He's  going  to  marry  you,  of  course  ?" 

Jeanne  flushed  crimson. 

"Of  course!"  she  retorted.  Her  blush  looked 
like  indignation,  and  so  Jimmie  construed  it,  but 
it  was  the  blush  of  embarrassment.  For  Maddox 
considered  the  ceremony  of  marriage  an  ignoble 
and  barbaric  bond.  It  degraded  the  woman,  he 
declared,  in  making  her  a  slave,  and  the  man  in 
that  he  accepted  such  a  sacrifice.  Jeanne  had 
not  argued  with  him.  Until  she  were  free,  to  dis 
cuss  it  with  him  seemed  indecent.  But  in  her 
own  mind  there  was  no  doubt.  If  she  were  to  be 
the  helpmate  of  Proctor  Maddox  in  uplifting  the 
world,  she  would  be  Mrs.  Proctor  Maddox;  or, 
much  as  he  was  to  her,  each  would  uplift  the 
world  alone.  But  she  did  not  see  the  necessity 
of  explaining  all  this  to  Jimmie,  so  she  said:  "Of 
course!" 

"I  will  see  the  lawyers  to-morrow,"  said 
Jimmie.  "It  will  take  some  time  to  arrange, 
and  so,"  he  added  hopefully,  "you  can  think  it 


over." 


Jeanne  exclaimed  miserably: 


Playing  Dead 

"I  have  thought  of  nothing  else/'  she  cried, 
"for  six  months !" 

Jimmie  bent  above  her  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder. 

"I  am  sorry,  so  sorry,"  he  said.  "If  I'd  any 
brains  I'd  have  seen  how  it  was  long  ago.  Now 
I'll  not  waste  time.  You'll  be  rid  of  me  as  quick 
as  the  courts  can  fix  it." 

He  started  for  the  door,  but  Jeanne  caught  his 
hand. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me,  Jimmie?"  she  said. 

Jimmie  hesitated  unhappily  and  Jeanne  raised 
her  eyes  to  his. 

"Not  since  we  were  married,  Jimmie,"  she  said, 
"has  any  one  kissed  me  but  you." 

So  Jimmie  bent  and  kissed  her.  She  clung  to 
his  sleeve. 

"Jimmie,"  she  begged,  "you  haven't  told  me 
you  forgive  me.  Unless  you  forgive  me  I  can't 
go  on  with  it.  Tell  me  you  forgive  me !" 

"Forgive  you?"  protested  Jimmie.  "I  love 
you!" 

When  Jimmie  went  {o  the  office  of  the  lawyer, 
who  also  was  his  best  friend,  and  told  him  that 
Jeanne  wanted  a  separation,  that  young  man 
kicked  the  waste-paper  basket  against  the  op 
posite  wall. 

52 


Playing  Dead 

"I'll  not  do  it,"  he  protested,  "and  I  won't  let 
you  do  it,  either.  Why  should  you  smear  your 
name  and  roll  in  the  dirt  and  play  dead  to  please 
Jeanne  ?  If  Jeanne  thinks  I'm  going  to  send  you 
to  a  Raines  hotel  and  follow  you  up  with  detect 
ives  to  furnish  her  with  a  fake  divorce,  you  can 
tell  her  I  won't.  What  are  they  coming  to?" 
demanded  the  best  friend.  "What  do  they  want  ? 
A  man  gives  a  woman  all  his  love,  all  his  thoughts, 
gives  her  his  name,  his  home;  only  asks  to  work 
his  brains  out  for  her,  only  asks  to  see  her  happy. 
And  she  calls  it  'charity,'  calls  herself  a  'slave' !" 
The  best  friend  kicked  violently  at  the  place 
where  the  waste-basket  had  been.  "Give  them 
the  vote,  I  say,"  he  shouted.  "It's  all  they're 
good  for !" 

The  violence  of  his  friend  did  not  impress  Jim- 
mie.  As  he  walked  up-town  the  only  part  of  the 
interview  he  carried  with  him  was  that  there  must 
be  no  scandal.  Not  on  his  account.  If  Jeanne 
wished  it,  he  assured  himself,  in  spite  of  the 
lawyer,  he  was  willing,  in  the  metaphor  of  that 
gentleman,  to  "roll  in  the  dirt  and  play  dead." 
"Play  dead!"  The  words  struck  him  full  in  the 
face.  Were  he  dead  and  out  of  the  way,  Jeanne, 
without  a  touch  of  scandal,  could  marry  the  man 
she  loved.  Jimmie  halted  in  his  tracks.  He  be- 

53 


Playing  Dead 

lieved  he  saw  the  only  possible  exit.  He  turned 
into  a  side  street,  and  between  the  silent  houses, 
closed  for  the  summer,  worked  out  his  plan. 
For  long  afterward  that  city  block  remained  in 
his  memory;  the  doctors'  signs  on  the  sills,  the 
caretakers  seeking  the  air,  the  chauffeurs  at  the 
cab  rank.  For  hours  they  watched  the  passing 
and  repassing  of  the  young  man,  who  with  bent 
head  and  fixed  eyes  struck  at  the  pavement  with 
his  stick. 

That  he  should  really  kill  himself  Jimmie  did 
not  for  a  moment  contemplate.  To  him  self- 
destruction  appeared  only  as  an  offense  against 
nature.  On  his  primitive,  out-of-door,  fox-hunt 
ing  mind  the  ethics  of  suicide  lay  as  uneasily  as 
absinthe  on  the  stomach  of  a  baby.  But,  he 
argued,  by  pretending  he  were  dead,  he  could  set 
Jeanne  free,  could  save  her  from  gossip,  and 
could  still  dream  of  her,  love  her,  and  occupy  with 
her,  if  not  the  same  continent,  the  same  world. 

He  had  three  problems  to  solve,  and  as  he  con 
sidered  them  he  devotedly  wished  he  might  con 
sult  with  a  brain  more  clever  than  his  own.  But 
an  accomplice  was  out  of  the  question.  Were  he 
to  succeed,  everybody  must  be  fooled;  no  one 
could  share  his  secret.  It  was  "a  lone  game, 
played  alone,  and  without  my  partner." 

54 


Playing  Dead 

The  three  problems  were:  first,  in  order  to  pro 
tect  his  wife,  to  provide  for  the  suicide  a  motive 
other  than  the  attentions  of  Maddox;  second,  to 
make  the  suicide  look  like  a  real  suicide;  third, 
without  later  creating  suspicion,  to  draw  enough 
money  from  the  bank  to  keep  himself  alive  after 
he  was  dead.  For  his  suicide  Jeanne  must  not 
hold  herself  to  blame;  she  must  not  believe  her 
conduct  forced  his  end;  above  every  one  else,  she 
must  be  persuaded  that  in  bringing  about  his 
death  she  was  completely  innocent.  What  rea 
sons  then  were  accepted  for  suicide  ? 

As  to  this,  Jimmie,  refusing  to  consider  the  act 
justified  for  any  reason,  was  somewhat  at  a  loss. 
He  had  read  of  men  who,  owing  to  loss  of  honor, 
loss  of  fortune,  loss  of  health,  had  "gone  out." 
He  was  determined  he  owed  it  to  himself  not  to 
go  out  under  a  cloud,  and  he  could  not  lose  his 
money,  as  then  there  would  be  none  to  leave 
Jeanne;  so  he  must  lose  his  health.  As  except  for 
broken  arms  and  collar-bones  he  never  had  known 
a  sick-bed,  this  last  was  as  difficult  as  the  others, 
but  it  must  serve.  After  much  consideration  he 
decided  he  would  go  blind.  At  least  he  would 
pretend  he  was  going  blind.  To  give  a  semblance 
of  truth  to  this  he  would  that  day  consult  dis 
tinguished  oculists  and,  in  spite  of  their  assur- 

55 


Playing  Dead 

ances,  would  tell  them  that  slowly  and  surely  his 
eyesight  was  failing  him.  He  would  declare  to 
them,  in  the  dread  of  such  a  catastrophe,  he  was 
of  a  mind  to  seek  self-destruction.  To  others  he 
would  confide  the  secret  of  his  blindness  and  his 
resolution  not  to  survive  it.  And,  later,  all  of 
these  would  remember  and  testify. 

The  question  of  money  also  was  difficult.  After 
his  death  he  no  longer  could  sign  a  check  or  nego 
tiate  securities.  He  must  have  cash.  But  if 
from  the  bank  he  drew  large  sums  of  actual 
money,  if  he  converted  stocks  and  bonds  into 
cash  and  a  week  later  disappeared,  apparently 
forever,  questions  as  to  what  became  of  the  sums 
he  had  collected  would  arise,  and  that  his  disap 
pearance  was  genuine  would  be  doubted.  This 
difficulty  made  Jimmie  for  a  moment  wonder  if 
being  murdered  for  his  money,  and  having  his 
body  concealed  by  the  murderer,  would  not  be 
better  than  suicide.  It  would,  at  least,  explain 
the  disappearance  of  the  money.  But  he  foresaw 
that  for  his  murder  some  innocent  one  might  be 
suspected  and  hanged.  This  suggested  leaving 
behind  him  evidence  to  show  that  the  one  who 
murdered  him  was  none  other  than  Proctor  Mad- 
dox.  The  idea  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor 
and  justice.  It  made  the  punishment  fit  the 

56 


Playing  Dead 

crime.  Not  without  reluctance  did  he  abandon 
it  and  return  to  his  plan  of  suicide.  But  he  recog 
nized  that  to  supply  himself  with  any  large  sum 
of  money  would  lead  to  suspicion  and  that  he 
must  begin  his  new  life  almost  empty-handed. 
In  his  new  existence  he  must  work. 

For  that  day  and  until  the  next  afternoon  he 
remained  in  town,  and  in  that  time  prepared  the 
way  for  his  final  exit.  At  a  respectable  lodging- 
house  on  West  Twenty-third  Street,  near  the 
ferry,  he  gave  his  name  as  Henry  Hull,  and  en 
gaged  a  room.  To  this  room,  from  a  department 
store  he  never  before  had  entered,  he  shipped  a 
trunk  and  valise  marked  with  his  new  initials 
and  filled  with  clothes  to  suit  his  new  estate. 
To  supply  himself  with  money,  at  banks,  clubs, 
and  restaurants  he  cashed  many  checks  for  small 
sums.  The  total  of  his  collections,  from  places 
scattered  over  all  the  city,  made  quite  a  comfort 
able  bank  roll.  And  in  his  box  at  the  safe- 
deposit  vault  he  came  upon  a  windfall.  It  was 
an  emerald  bracelet  left  him  by  an  eccentric 
aunt  who  had  lived  and  died  in  Paris.  The 
bracelet  he  had  offered  to  Jeanne,  but  she  did  not 
like  it  and  had  advised  him  to  turn  it  into  money 
and,  as  the  aged  relative  had  wished,  spend  it 
upon  himself.  That  was  three  years  since,  and 

57 


Playing  Dead 

now  were  it  missing  Jeanne  would  believe  that  at 
some  time  in  the  past  he  had  followed  her  advice. 
So  he  carried  the  bracelet  away  with  him.  For  a 
year  it  would  keep  a  single  man  in  comfort. 

His  next  step  was  to  acquaint  himself  with  the 
nature  of  the  affliction  on  account  of  which  he  was 
to  destroy  himself.  At  the  public  library  he  col 
lected  a  half-dozen  books  treating  of  blindness, 
and  selected  his  particular  malady.  He  picked 
out  glaucoma,  and  for  his  purpose  it  was  admi 
rably  suited.  For,  so  Jimmie  discovered,  in  a 
case  of  glaucoma  the  oculist  was  completely  at 
the  mercy  of  the  patient.  Except  to  the  patient 
the  disease  gave  no  sign.  To  an  oculist  a  man 
might  say,  "Three  nights  ago  my  eyesight  played 
me  the  following  tricks,"  and  from  that  the  ocu 
list  would  know  the  man  was  stricken  with  glau 
coma;  but  the  eyes  would  tell  him  nothing. 

The  next  morning  to  four  oculists  Jimmie  de 
tailed  his  symptoms.  Each  looked  grave,  and  all 
diagnosed  his  trouble  as  glaucoma. 

"I  knew  it !"  groaned  Jimmie,  and  assured  them 
sooner  than  go  blind  he  would  jump  into  the  river. 
They  pretended  to  treat  this  as  an  extravagance, 
but  later,  when  each  of  them  was  interviewed,  he 
remembered  that  Mr.  Blagwin  had  threatened  to 
drown  himself.  On  his  way  to  the  train  Jimmie 

58 


Playing  Dead 

purchased  a  pair  of  glasses  and,  in  order  to  invite 
questions,  in  the  club  car  pretended  to  read  with 
them.  When  his  friends  expressed  surprise,  Jim- 
mie  told  them  of  the  oculists  he  had  consulted,  and 
that  they  had  informed  him  his  case  was  hope 
less.  If  this  proved  true,  he  threatened  to  drown 
himself. 

On  his  return  home  he  explained  to  Jeanne  he 
had  seen  the  lawyer,  and  that  that  gentleman  sug 
gested  the  less  she  knew  of  what  was  going  on  the 
better.  In  return  Jeanne  told  him  she  had  sent 
for  Maddox  and  informed  him  that,  until  the 
divorce  was  secured,  they  had  best  not  be  seen 
together.  The  wisdom  of  this  appealed  even  to 
Maddox,  and  already,  to  fill  in  what  remained  of 
the  summer,  he  had  departed  for  Bar  Harbor. 
To  Jimmie  the  relief  of  his  absence  was  inexpress 
ible.  He  had  given  himself  only  a  week  to  live, 
and,  for  the  few  days  still  remaining  to  him,  to  be 
alone  with  Jeanne  made  him  miserably  happy. 
The  next  morning  Jimmie  confessed  to  his  wife 
that  his  eyes  were  failing  him.  The  trouble 
came,  he  explained,  from  a  fall  he  had  received 
the  year  before  steeplechasing.  He  had  not  be 
fore  spoken  of  it,  as  he  did  not  wish  to  distress  her. 
The  oculists  he  had  consulted  gave  him  no  hope. 
He  would  end  it,  he  declared,  in  the  gun-room. 

59 


Playing  Dead 

Jeanne  was  thoroughly  alarmed.  That  her  old 
playmate,  lover,  husband  should  come  to  such  a 
plight  at  the  very  time  she  had  struck  him  the 
hardest  blow  of  all  filled  her  with  remorse.  In  a 
hundred  ways  she  tried  to  make  up  to  him  for  the 
loss  of  herself  and  for  the  loss  of  his  eyes.  She 
became  his  constant  companion;  never  had  she 
been  so  kind  and  so  considerate.  They  saw  no 
one  from  the  outside,  and  each  day  through  the 
wood  paths  that  circled  their  house  made  silent 
pilgrimages.  And  each  day  on  a  bench,  placed 
high,  where  the  view  was  fairest,  together,  and  yet 
so  far  apart,  watched  the  sun  sink  into  the  sound. 

"These  are  the  times  I  will  remember/'  said 
Jimmie;  "when — when  I  am  alone." 

The  last  night  they  sat  on  the  bench  he  took 
out  his  knife  and  carved  the  date — July,  1913. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Jeanne. 

"It  means  to-night  I  seem  to  love  you  more 
and  need  you  more  than  ever  before,"  said  Jim 
mie.  "That  is  what  it  means.  Will  you  re 
member?" 

Jeanne  was  looking  away  from  him,  but  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  upon  his. 

"To-morrow  I  am  going  to  town,"  said  Jimmie, 
"to  see  that  oculist  from  Paris.  They  say  what  he 
tells  you  is  the  last  word.  And,  if  he  says " 

Jeanne  swung  toward  him  and  with  all  the  jeal- 
60 


Playing  Dead 

ousy  of  possession  held  his  hand.  Her  own  eyes 
were  blurred  with  tears. 

"He  will  tell  you  the  others  are  wrong!"  she 
cried.  "I  know  he  will.  He  must!  You — who 
have  always  been  so  kind !  God  could  not  be  so 
cruel!" 

Jimmie  stopped  her. 

"If  I  am  not  to  see  you " 

During  his  last  week  at  home  Jimmie  had  in 
vented  a  Doctor  Picard,  a  distinguished  French 
oculist,  who,  on  a  tour  of  the  world,  was  by  the 
rarest  chance  at  that  moment  in  New  York.  Ac 
cording  to  Jimmie,  all  the  other  oculists  had  in 
sisted  he  must  consult  Picard,  and  might  consider 
what  Picard  said  as  final.  Picard  was  staying 
with  a  friend — Jimmie  did  not  say  where — and 
after  receiving  Jimmie  was  at  once  taking  the 
train  for  San  Francisco.  As  Jimmie  had  ar 
ranged  his  scenario,  it  was  Picard  who  was  to 
deal  him  his  death  sentence. 

Her  husband  seemed  so  entirely  to  depend  on 
what  Picard  might  say  that  Jeanne  decided, 
should  the  verdict  be  unfavorable,  she  had  best 
be  at  his  side.  But,  as  this  would  have  upset 
Jimmie's  plan,  he  argued  against  it.  Should  the 
news  be  bad,  he  pointed  out,  for  her  to  receive  it 
in  her  own  home  would  be  much  easier  for  both. 
Jeanne  felt  she  had  been  rebuffed,  but  that,  if 

61 


Playing  Dead 

Jimmie  did  not  want  her  with  him,  she  no  longer 
was  in  a  position  to  insist. 

So  she  contented  herself  with  driving  him  to  the 
train  and,  before  those  who  knew  them  at  the 
station,  kissing  him  good-by. 

Afterward,  that  she  had  done  so  comforted  her 
greatly. 

"I'll  be  praying  for  you,  Jimmie,"  she  whis 
pered.  "And,  as  soon  as  you  know,  you'll " 

So  upset  was  Jimmie  by  the  kiss,  and  by  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  saying  farewell  for  the  last 
time,  that  he  nearly  exposed  his  purpose. 

"I  want  the  last  thing  I  say  to  you,"  he  stam 
mered,  "to  be  this:  that  whatever  you  do  will  be 
right.  I  love  you  so  that  I  will  understand." 

When  he  arrived  in  New  York,  in  his  own  name, 
he  booked  a  stateroom  on  the  Ceramic.  She  was 
listed  to  sail  that  evening  after  midnight.  It  was 
because  she  departed  at  that  hour  that  for  a  week 
Jimmie  had  fixed  upon  her  as  furnishing  the  scene 
of  his  exit.  During  the  day  he  told  several  of  his 
friends  that  the  report  of  the  great  oculist  had 
been  against  him.  Later,  they  recalled  that  he 
talked  wildly,  that  he  was  deeply  despondent. 
In  the  afternoon  he  sent  a  telegram  to  Jeanne: 

"  Verdict  unfavorable.  Will  remain  to-night  in  town. 
All  love.  J." 

62 


Playing  Dead 

At  midnight  he  went  on  board.  The  decks  and 
saloons  were  swarming  and  noisy  with  seagoers, 
many  of  whom  had  come  to  the  ship  directly  from 
the  theatres  and  restaurants,  the  women  bare 
headed,  in  evening  gowns.  Jimmie  felt  grateful 
to  them.  They  gave  to  the  moment  of  his  taking 
off  an  air  of  gentle  gayety.  Among  those  who 
were  sailing,  and  those  who  had  come  to  wish 
them  "bon  voyage,"  many  were  known  to  Jim 
mie.  He  told  them  he  was  going  abroad  at  the 
command  of  his  oculist.  Also,  he  forced  himself 
upon  the  notice  of  officers  and  stewards,  giving 
them  his  name,  and  making  inquiries  concerning 
the  non-appearance  of  fictitious  baggage.  Later, 
they  also  recalled  the  young  man  in  dinner  jacket 
and  golf  cap  who  had  lost  a  dressing-case  marked 
"James  Blagwin." 

In  his  cabin  Jimmie  wrote  two  letters.  The  one 
to  the  captain  of  the  ship  read: 

"After  we  pass  Fire  Island  I  am  going  overboard.  Do 
not  make  any  effort  to  find  me,  as  it  will  be  useless. 
I  am  sorry  to  put  you  to  this  trouble." 

The  second  letter  was  to  Jeanne.     It  read: 

"  Picard  agreed  with  the  others.  My  case  is  hopeless. 
I  am  ending  all  to-night.  Forgive  me,  I  leave  you  all 
the  love  in  all  the  world.  Jimmie." 

63 


Playing  Dead 

When  he  had  addressed  these  letters  he  rang 
for  the  steward. 

"I  am  not  going  to  wait  until  we  leave  the 
dock,"  he  said.  "I  am  turning  in  now.  I  am 
very  tired,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  wake  me  on 
any  excuse  whatsoever  until  to-morrow  at  noon. 
Better  still,  don't  come  until  I  ring!" 

When  the  steward  had  left  him,  Jimmie  pinned 
the  two  letters  upon  the  pillow,  changed  the 
steamer-cap  for  an  Alpine  hat,  and  beneath  a 
rain-coat  concealed  his  evening  clothes.  He  had 
purposely  selected  the  deck  cabin  farthest  aft. 
Accordingly,  when  after  making  the  cabin  dark 
he  slipped  from  it,  the  break  in  the  deck  that 
separated  the  first  from  the  second  class  pas 
sengers  was  but  a  step  distant.  The  going- 
ashore  bugles  had  sounded,  and  more  tumult 
than  would  have  followed  had  the  ship  struck  a 
rock  now  spread  to  every  deck.  With  sharp  com 
mands  officers  were  speeding  the  parting  guests; 
the  parting  guests  were  shouting  passionate  good- 
bys  and  sending  messages  to  Aunt  Maria;  quarter 
masters  howled  hoarse  warnings,  donkey-engines 
panted  under  the  weight  of  belated  luggage,  fall 
and  tackle  groaned  and  strained.  And  the  ship's 
siren,  enraged  at  the  delay,  protested  in  one  long- 
drawn-out,  inarticulate  shriek. 


Playing  Dead 

Jimmie  slipped  down  the  accommodation  ladder 
that  led  to  the  well-deck,  side-stepped  a  yawning 
hatch,  dodged  a  swinging  cargo  net  stuffed  with 
trunks,  and  entered  the  second-class  smoking- 
room.  From  there  he  elbowed  his  way  to  the 
second-class  promenade  deck.  A  stream  of  tear 
ful  and  hilarious  visitors  who,  like  sheep  in  a 
chute,  were  being  herded  down  the  gangway, 
engulfed  him.  Unresisting,  Jimmie  let  himself, 
by  weight  of  numbers,  be  carried  forward. 

A  moment  later  he  was  shot  back  to  the  dock 
and  to  the  country  from  which  at  that  moment, 
in  deck  cabin  A  4,  he  was  supposed  to  be  draw 
ing  steadily  away. 

Dodging  the  electric  lights,  on  foot  he  made  his 
way  to  his  lodging-house.  The  night  was  warm 
and  moist,  and,  seated  on  the  stoop,  stripped  to 
shirt  and  trousers,  was  his  landlord. 

He  greeted  Jimmie  affably. 

"Evening,  Mr.  Hull,"  he  said.  "Hope  this 
heat  won't  keep  you  awake." 

Jimmie  thanked  him  and  passed  hurriedly. 

"Mr.  Hull!" 

The  landlord  had  said  it. 

Somewhere  out  at  sea,  between  Fire  Island  and 
Scotland  Lightship,  the  waves  were  worrying  with 
what  once  had  been  Jimmie  Blagwin,  and  in  a 

65 


Playing  Dead 

hall  bedroom  on  Twenty-third  Street  Henry  Hull, 
with  frightened  eyes,  sat  staring  across  the 
wharves,  across  the  river,  thinking  of  a  farmhouse 
on  Long  Island. 

His  last  week  on  earth  had  been  more  of  a  strain 
on  Jimmie  than  he  appreciated;  and  the  night  the 
Ceramic  sailed  he  slept  the  drugged  sleep  of  com 
plete  nervous  exhaustion.  Late  the  next  morning, 
while  he  still  slept,  a  passenger  on  the  Ceramic 
stumbled  upon  the  fact  of  his  disappearance.  The 
man  knew  Jimmie;  had  greeted  him  the  night  be 
fore  when  he  came  on  board,  and  was  seeking  him 
that  he  might  subscribe  to  a  pool  on  the  run. 
When  to  his  attack  on  Jimmie's  door  there  was 
no  reply,  he  peered  through  the  air-port,  saw  on 
the  pillow,  where  Jimmie's  head  should  have 
been,  two  letters,  and  reported  to  the  purser. 
Already  the  ship  was  three  hundred  miles  from 
where  Jimmie  had  announced  he  would  drown 
himself;  a  search  showed  he  was  not  on  board, 
and  the  evidence  of  a  smoking-room  steward,  who 
testified  that  at  one  o'clock  he  had  left  Mr. 
Blagwin  alone  on  deck,  gazing  "mournful-like" 
at  Fire  Island,  seemed  to  prove  Jimmie  had  carried 
out  his  threat.  When  later  the  same  passenger 
the  steward  had  mistaken  for  Jimmie  appeared 
in  the  smoking-room  and  ordered  a  drink  from 

66 


Playing  Dead 

him,  the  steward  was  rattled.  But  as  the  person 
who  had  last  seen  Jimmie  Blagwin  alive  he  had 
gained  melancholy  interest,  and,  as  his  oft-told 
tale  was  bringing  him  many  shillings,  he  did  not 
correct  it.  Accordingly,  from  Cape  Sable  the 
news  of  Jimmie's  suicide  was  reported.  That 
afternoon  it  appeared  in  all  the  late  editions  of 
the  evening  papers. 

Pleading  fever,  Jimmie  explained  to  his  land 
lord  that  for  him  to  venture  out  by  day  was  most 
dangerous,  and  sent  the  landlord  after  the  news 
papers.  The  feelings  with  which  he  read  them 
were  mixed.  He  was  proud  of  the  complete  suc 
cess  of  his  plot,  but  the  inevitableness  of  it  ter 
rified  him.  The  success  was  too  complete.  He 
had  left  himself  no  loophole.  He  had  locked  the 
door  on  himself  and  thrown  the  key  out  of  the 
window.  Now,  that  she  was  lost  to  him  forever, 
he  found,  if  that  were  possible,  he  loved  his  wife 
more  devotedly  than  before.  He  felt  that  to  live 
in  the  same  world  with  Jeanne  and  never  speak 
to  her,  never  even  look  at  her,  could  not  be  borne. 
He  was  of  a  mind  to  rush  to  the  wharf  and  take 
another  leap  into  the  dark  waters,  and  this  time 
without  a  life-line.  From  this  he  was  restrained 
only  by  the  thought  that  if  he  used  infinite  cau 
tion,  at  infrequent  intervals,  at  a  great  distance, 

67 


Playing  Dead 

he  still  might  look  upon  his  wife.  This  he  as 
sured  himself  would  be  possible  only  after  many 
years  had  aged  him  and  turned  his  hair  gray. 
Then  on  second  thoughts  he  believed  to  wait  so 
long  was  not  absolutely  necessary.  It  would  be 
safe  enough,  he  argued,  if  he  grew  a  beard.  He 
always  had  been  clean-shaven,  and  he  was  con 
fident  a  beard  would  disguise  him.  He  wondered 
how  long  a  time  must  pass  before  one  would  grow. 
Once  on  a  hunting-trip  he  had  gone  for  two  weeks 
without  shaving,  and  the  result  had  not  only  dis 
guised  but  disgusted  him.  His  face  had  changed 
to  one  like  those  carved  on  cocoanuts.  A  recol 
lection  of  this  gave  him  great  pleasure.  His 
spirits  rose  happily.  He  saw  himself  in  the  rags 
of  a  tramp,  his  face  hidden  in  an  unkempt  beard, 
skulking  behind  the  hedges  that  surrounded  his 
house.  From  this  view-point,  before  sailing  away 
from  her  forever,  he  would  again  steal  a  look  at 
Jeanne.  He  determined  to  postpone  nis  departure 
until  he  had  grown  a  beard.  Meanwhile  he  would 
plead  illness,  and  keep  to  his  room,  or  venture  out 
only  at  night.  Comforted  by  the  thought  that  in 
two  weeks  he  might  again  see  his  wife,  as  she  sat 
on  the  terrace  or  walked  in  her  gardens,  he  sank 
peaceably  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  the  landlord  brought  him  the 
68 


Playing  Dead 

papers.  In  them  were  many  pictures  of  himself 
as  a  master  of  foxhounds,  as  a  polo-player,  as  a 
gentleman  jockey.  The  landlord  looked  at  him 
curiously.  Five  minutes  later,  on  a  trivial  ex 
cuse,  he  returned  and  again  studied  Jimmie  as 
closely  as  though  he  were  about  to  paint  his  por 
trait.  Then  two  of  the  other  boarders,  chums  of 
the  landlord,  knocked  at  the  door,  to  borrow  a 
match,  to  beg  the  loan  of  the  morning  paper. 
Each  was  obviously  excited,  each  stared  accus 
ingly.  Jimmie  fell  into  a  panic.  He  felt  that  if 
already  his  identity  was  questioned,  than  hiding 
in  his  room  and  growing  a  beard  nothing  could 
be  more  suspicious.  At  noon,  for  West  Indian 
ports,  a  German  boat  was  listed  to  sail  from  the 
Twenty-fourth  Street  wharf.  Jimmie  decided  at 
once  to  sail  with  her  and,  until  his  beard  was 
grown,  not  to  return.  It  was  necessary  first  to 
escape  the  suspicious  landlord,  and  to  that  end 
he  noiselessly  packed  his  trunk  and  suit-case.  In 
front  of  the  house,  in  an  unending  procession, 
taxi-cabs  returning  empty  from  the  Twenty-third 
Street  ferry  passed  the  door,  and  from  the  street 
Jimmie  hailed  one.  Before  the  landlord  could 
voice  his  doubts  Jimmie  was  on  the  sidewalk, 
his  bill  had  been  paid,  and,  giving  the  address  of 
a  hotel  on  Fourteenth  Street,  he  was  away. 

69 


Playing  Dead 

At  the  Fourteenth  Street  hotel  Jimmie  dis 
missed  the  taxi-cab  and  asked  for  a  room  adjoin 
ing  an  imaginary  Senator  Gates.  When  the  clerk 
told  him  Senator  Gates  was  not  at  that  hotel, 
Jimmie  excitedly  demanded  to  be  led  to  the  tele 
phone.  He  telephoned  the  office  of  the  steamship 
line  and,  in  the  name  of  Henry  Hull,  secured  a 
cabin.  Then  he  explained  to  the  clerk  that  over 
the  telephone  he  had  learned  that  his  friend, 
Senator  Gates,  was  at  another  hotel.  He  re 
gretted  that  he  must  follow  him.  Another  taxi 
was  called,  and  Jimmie  drove  to  an  inconspicuous 
and  old-fashioned  hotel  on  the  lower  East  Side, 
patronized  exclusively  by  gunmen.  There,  in 
not  finding  Senator  Gates,  he  was  again  disap 
pointed,  and  now  having  broken  the  link  that 
connected  him  with  the  suspicious  landlord,  he 
drove  back  to  within  a  block  of  his  original 
starting-point  and  went  on  board  the  ship.  Not 
until  she  was  off  Sandy  Hook  did  he  leave  his 
cabin. 

It  was  July,  and  passengers  to  the  tropics  were 
few;  and  when  Jimmie  ventured  on  deck  he  found 
most  of  them  gathered  at  the  port  rail.  They 
were  gazing  intently  over  the  ship's  side.  Thinking 
the  pilot  might  be  leaving,  Jimmie  joined  them. 
A  young  man  in  a  yachting-cap  was  pointing 

70 


Playing  Dead 

north  and  speaking  in  the  voice  of  a  conductor  of 
a  "seeing  New  York"  car. 

"Just  between  that  lighthouse  and  the  bow  of 
this  ship,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  where  yesterday 
James  Blagwin  jumped  overboard.  At  any  mo 
ment  we  may  see  the  body !" 

An  excitable  passenger  cried  aloud  and  pointed 
at  some  floating  seaweed. 

"I'll  bet  that's  it  now!"  he  shouted. 

Jimmie  exclaimed  indignantly: 

"I'll  bet  you  ten  dollars  it  isn't!"  he  said. 

In  time  the  ship  touched  at  Santiago,  Kingston, 
and  Colon,  but,  fearing  recognition,  Jimmie  saw 
these  places  only  from  the  deck.  He  travelled 
too  fast  for  newspapers  to  overtake  him,  and  those 
that  on  the  return  passage  met  the  ship,  of  his 
death  gave  no  details.  So,  except  that  his  sui 
cide  had  been  accepted,  Jimmie  knew  nothing. 

Least  of  all  did  he  know,  or  even  guess,  that  his 
act  of  renunciation,  intended  to  bring  to  Jeanne 
happiness,  had  nearly  brought  about  her  own  end. 
She  believed  Jimmie  was  dead,  but  not  for  a  mo 
ment  did  she  believe  it  was  for  fear  of  blindness  he 
had  killed  himself.  She  and  Maddox  had  killed 
him.  Between  them  they  had  murdered  the  man 
who,  now  that  he  was  gone,  she  found  she  loved 
devotedly.  To  a  shocked  and  frightened  letter  of 


Playing  Dead 

condolence  from  Maddox  she  wrote  one  that  for 
ever  ordered  him  out  of  her  life.  Then  she  set 
about  making  a  saint  of  Jimmie,  and  counting  the 
days  when  in  another  world  they  would  meet,  and 
her  years  of  remorse,  penitence,  and  devotion 
would  cause  him  to  forgive  her.  In  their  home 
she  shut  herself  off  from  every  one.  She  made  of 
it  a  shrine  to  Jimmie.  She  kept  his  gloves  on  the 
hall  table;  on  her  writing-desk  she  placed  flowers 
before  his  picture.  Preston,  the  butler,  and  the 
other  servants  who  had  been  long  with  them 
feared  for  her  sanity,  but,  loving  "Mr.  James" 
as  they  did,  sympathized  with  her  morbidness. 
So,  in  the  old  farmhouse,  it  was  as  though  Jimmie 
still  stamped  through  the  halls,  or  from  his  room, 
as  he  dressed,  whistled  merrily.  In  the  kennels 
the  hounds  howled  dismally,  in  the  stables  at 
each  footstep  the  ponies  stamped  with  impa 
tience,  on  the  terrace  his  house  dog,  Huang  Su, 
lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  road  waiting  for 
the  return  of  the  master,  and  in  the  gardens  a 
girl  in  black,  wasted  and  white-faced,  walked  alone 
and  rebelled  that  she  was  still  alive. 

After  six  weeks,  when  the  ship  re-entered  New 
York  harbor,  Jimmie,  his  beard  having  grown, 
and  wearing  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  walked  boldly 
down  the  gangplank.  His  confidence  was  not 

72 


Playing  Dead 

misplaced.  The  polo-player,  clean-faced,  lean,  and 
fit,  had  disappeared.  Six  weeks  of  German  cook 
ing,  a  German  barber,  and  the  spectacles  had  pro 
duced  a  graduate  of  Heidelberg. 

At  a  furnished  room  on  a  side  street  Jimmie  left 
his  baggage,  and  at  once  at  the  public  library,  in 
the  back  numbers  of  the  daily  papers,  read  the 
accounts  of  his  death  and  interviews  with  his 
friends.  They  all  agreed  the  reason  for  his  sui 
cide  was  his  fear  of  approaching  blindness.  As 
he  read,  Jimmie  became  deeply  depressed.  Any 
sneaking  hopes  he  might  have  held  that  he  was 
not  dead  were  now  destroyed.  The  evidence  of 
his  friends  was  enough  to  convince  any  one.  It 
convinced  him.  Now  that  it  was  too  late,  his  act 
of  self-sacrifice  appeared  supremely  stupid  and 
ridiculous.  Bitterly  he  attacked  himself  as  a 
bungler  and  an  ass.  He  assured  himself  he  should 
have  made  a  fight  for  it;  should  have  fought  for 
his  wife  and  against  Maddox.  Instead  of  which 
he  weakly  had  effaced  himself,  had  surrendered 
his  rights,  had  abandoned  his  wife  at  a  time  when 
most  was  required  of  him.  He  tortured  himself 
by  thinking  that  probably  at  that  very  moment 
she  was  in  need  of  his  help.  And  at  that  very 
moment  head-lines  in  the  paper  he  was  searching 
proved  this  was  true. 

73 


Playing  Dead 

*r 

"BLAGWIN'S  LOST  WILL,"  he  read.  "DETECT 
IVES  RELINQUISH  SEARCH?  REWARD  OF  TEN 
THOUSAND  DOLLARS  FAILS  TO  BRING  CLEW!" 

Jimmie  raced  through  the  back  numbers.  They 
told  him  his  will,  in  which  he  had  left  everything 
to  Jeanne,  could  not  be  found;  that  in  consequence, 
except  her  widow's  third,  all  of  his  real  estate, 
which  was  the  bulk  of  his  property,  would  now  go 
to  two  distant  cousins  who  already  possessed 
more  than  was  good  for  them,  and  who  in  Paris 
were  leading  lives  of  elegant  wastefulness.  The 
will  had  been  signed  the  week  before  his  wedding- 
day,  but  the  lawyer  who  had  drawn  it  was  dead, 
and  the  witnesses,  two  servants,  had  long  since 
quit  Jimmie's  service  and  could  not  be  found. 
It  was  known  Jimmie  kept  the  will  in  the  safe 
at  his  country  house,  but  from  the  safe  it  had 
disappeared. 

Jimmie's  best  friend,  and  now  Jeanne's  lawyer, 
the  man  who  had  refused  him  the  divorce,  had 
searched  the  house  from  the  attic  to  the  coal 
cellar;  detectives  had  failed  to  detect;  rewards  had 
remained  unclaimed;  no  one  could  tell  where  the 
will  was  hidden.  Only  Jimmie  could  tell.  And 
Jimmie  was  dead.  And  no  one  knew  that  better 
than  Jimmie.  Again  he  upbraided  himself.  Why 
had  he  not  foreseen  this  catastrophe  ?  Why, 

74 


Playing  Dead 

before  his  final  taking  off,  had  he  not  returned 
the  will  to  the  safe  ?  Now,  a  word  from  him 
would  give  Jeanne  all  his  fortune,  and  that  word 
he  could  not  speak. 

The  will  was  between  the  leaves  of  a  copy  of 
"Pickwick,"  and  it  stood  on  a  shelf  in  his  bedroom. 
One  night,  six  months  before,  to  alter  a  small  be 
quest,  he  had  carried  the  will  up-stairs  and  written 
a  rough  draft  of  the  new  codicil.  And  then, 
merely  because  he  was  sleepy  and  disinclined  to 
struggle  with  a  combination  lock,  he  had  stuck 
the  will  in  the  book  he  was  reading.  He  intended 
the  first  thing  the  next  morning  to  put  it  back  in 
the  safe.  But  the  first  thing  the  next  morning 
word  came  from  the  kennels  that  during  the  night 
six  beagle  puppies  had  arrived,  and  naturally 
Jimmie  gave  no  thought  to  anything  so  unim 
portant  as  a  will.  Nor  since  then  had  he  thought 
of  it.  And  now  how  was  he,  a  dead  man,  to  re 
trieve  it  ? 

That  those  in  the  library  might  not  observe  his 
agitation,  he  went  outside,  and  in  Bryant  Park  on 
a  bench  faced  his  problem.  Except  himself,  of  the 
hidden  place  of  the  will  no  one  could  possibly 
know.  So,  if  even  by  an  anonymous  letter,  or  by 
telephone,  he  gave  the  information  to  his  late 
lawyer  or  to  the  detectives,  they  at  once  would 

75 


Playing  Dead 

guess  from  where  the  clew  came  and  that  James 
Blagwin  was  still  alive.  So  that  plan  was  aban 
doned.  Then  he  wondered  if  he  might  not  con 
vey  the  tip  to  some  one  who  had  access  to  his 
bedroom;  his  valet  or  a  chambermaid  who,  as 
though  by  accident,  might  stumble  upon  the  will. 
But,  as  every  one  would  know  the  anonymous 
tipster  could  be  only  Blagwin  himself,  that  plan 
also  was  rejected.  He  saw  himself  in  a  blind  alley. 
Without  an  accomplice  he  could  not  act;  with  an 
accomplice  his  secret  would  be  betrayed. 

Suddenly  a  line  in  one  of  the  newspapers  re 
turned  to  him.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  to 
discover  the  lost  will  several  clairvoyants,  medi 
ums,  and  crystal-gazers  had  offered  their  services. 
Jimmie  determined  that  one  of  these  should  be 
his  accomplice.  He  would  tell  the  clairvoyant  he 
formerly  had  been  employed  as  valet  by  Blag 
win  and  knew  where  Blagwin  had  placed  his  will. 
But  he  had  been  discharged  under  circumstances 
that  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  lie  low.  He 
would  hint  it  was  the  police  he  feared.  This 
would  explain  why  he  could  not  come  forward, 
and  why  he  sought  the  aid  of  the  clairvoyant. 
If  the  clairvoyant  fell  in  with  his  plan  he  would 
tell  him  where  the  will  could  be  found,  the  clair 
voyant  would  pretend  in  a  trance  to  discover 

76 


Playing  Dead 

the  hiding-place,  would  confide  his  discovery  to 
Mrs.  Blagwin's  lawyer,  the  lawyer  would  find  the 
will,  the  clairvoyant  would  receive  the  reward, 
and  an  invaluable  advertisement.  And  Jimmie's 
ghost  would  rest  in  peace.  He  needed  only  a 
clairvoyant  who  was  not  so  upright  that  he  fell 
over  backward.  Jimmie  assured  himself  one  of 
that  kind  would  not  be  difficult  to  find. 

He  returned  to  the  newspaper-room  of  the 
library  and  in  the  advertising  columns  of  a  Sun 
day  paper  found  a  clairvoyant  who  promised  to 
be  the  man  he  wanted. 

He  was  an  Indian  prince,  but  for  five  dollars 
would  tell  fortunes,  cast  horoscopes,  and  recover 
lost  articles.  Jimmie  found  him  in  the  back  room 
on  the  first  floor  of  an  old-fashioned  house  of 
sandstone  on  a  side  street.  A  blonde  young 
woman,  who  was  directing  envelopes  and  en 
closing  in  them  the  business  card  of  the  prince, 
accepted  Jimmie's  five  dollars  and  ushered  him 
into  the  presence.  The  back  room  was  very 
dark.  There  were  no  windows  showing,  and  the 
walls  were  entirely  hidden  by  curtains  in  which 
twinkled  tiny  mirrors.  The  only  light  came  from 
a  lamp  that  swung  on  chains. 

The  prince  was  young,  tall,  dark-skinned,  with 
a  black,  pointed  beard.  He  wore  his  national 

77 


Playing  Dead 

costume  and  over  it  many  necklaces  of  strange 
stones,  and  of  jewels  more  strange.  He  sat  on  a 
papier-mache  throne  with  gilded  elephants  for 
supports,  and  in  his  hand  held  a  crystal  globe. 
His  head  was  all  but  hidden  in  an  enormous 
silken  turban  on  which  hung  a  single  pearl. 
Jimmie  made  up  his  mind  that  if  the  prince  was 
no  more  on  the  level  than  his  jewels  there  would 
be  no  trouble. 

Jimmie  came  quickly  to  the  point. 

"I  can't  show  up,"  he  explained,  "because 
after  I  lost  my  job  as  Mr.  Blagwin's  valet  several 
articles  of  value  were  missing.  But  you  can 
show  up  for  me.  If  fche  will  is  not  where  I  saw  it 
— where  I  tell  you  it  is — you're  no  worse  off  than 
you  are  now.  You  can  say  the  spirits  misled 
you.  But,  if  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  you  stand 
to  get  half  the  reward  and  the  biggest  press  story 
any  ghost-raiser  ever  put  across. 

"And  why,"  in  conclusion  Jimmie  demanded, 
"should  I  ask  you  to  do  this,  if  what  I  say  is 
not  true  ?" 

The  prince  made  no  reply. 

With  a  sweeping  gesture  he  brought  the  crys 
tal  globe  into  his  lap  and,  bending  his  head, 
apparently  peered  into  its  depths.  In  reality  he 
was  gaining  time.  To  himself  he  was  repeating 

78 


Playing  Dead 

Jimmie's  question.  If  the  stranger  were  not 
speaking  the  truth,  why  was  he  asking  him  to 
join  in  a  plot  to  deceive?  The  possibility  that 
Jimmie  was  telling  the  truth  the  prince  did  not 
even  consider.  He  was  not  used  to  the  truth, 
and  as  to  the  motives  of  Jimmie  in  inviting  him 
to  break  the  law  he  already  had  made  his  guess. 
It  was  that  Jimmie  must  be  a  detective  setting  a 
trap  which  later  would  betray  him  to  the  police. 
And  the  prince  had  no  desire  to  fall  in  with  the 
police  nor  to  fall  out  with  them.  All  he  ever 
asked  of  those  gentlemen  was  to  leave  him  alone. 
And,  since  apparently  they  would  not  leave 
him  alone,  he  saw,  deep  down  in  the  crystal 
globe,  a  way  by  which  not  only  could  he  avoid 
their  trap,  but  might  spring  it  to  his  own  advan 
tage. 

Instead  of  the  detective  denouncing  him,  he 
would  denounce  the  detective.  Of  the  police  he 
would  become  an  ally.  He  would  call  upon  them 
to  arrest  a  man  who  was  planning  to  blackmail 
Mrs.  James  Blagwin. 

Unseen  by  Jimmie,  in  the  arm  of  his  throne  he 
pressed  an  electric  button,  and  in  the  front  room 
in  the  ear  of  the  blonde  a  signal  buzzed.  In  her 
turn  the  blonde  pushed  aside  the  curtains  that 
hid  the  door  to  the  front  hall. 

79 


Playing  Dead 

"Pardon,  Highness,"  she  said,  "a  certain  party 
in  Wall  Street" — she  paused  impressively,  and 
the  prince  nodded — "wants  to  consult  you  about 
his  Standard  Oil  stock." 

"He  must  wait,"  returned  the  prince. 

"Pardon,  Highness,"  persisted  the  lady;  "he 
cannot  wait.  It  is  a  matter  of  millions." 

Of  this  dialogue,  which  was  the  vehicle  always 
used  to  get  the  prince  out  of  the  audience-chamber 
and  into  the  front  hall,  undoubtedly  the  best 
line  was  the  one  given  to  the  blonde — "it  is  a 
matter  of  millions !" 

Knowing  this,  she  used  to  speak  it  slowly  and 
impressively.  It  impressed  even  Jimmie.  And 
after  the  prince  had  reverently  deposited  his 
globe  upon  a  velvet  cushion  and  disappeared, 
Jimmie  sat  wondering  who  in  Wall  Street  was 
rich  enough  to  buy  Standard  Oil  stock,  and  who 
was  fool  enough  to  sell  it. 

But  over  such  idle  questions  he  was  not  long 
left  to  meditate.  Something  more  personal  de 
manded  his  full  attention.  Behind  him  the  prince 
carefully  had  closed  the  door  to  the  front  hall. 
But,  not  having  his  crystal  globe  with  him,  he 
did  not  know  it  had  not  remained  closed,  and  as 
he  stood  under  the  hall  stairs  and  softly  lifted  the 
receiver  from  the  telephone,  he  was  not  aware 

80 


Playing  Dead 

that  his  voice  carried  to  the  room  in  which  Jim- 
mie  was  waiting. 

"Hello,"  whispered  the  prince  softly.  His 
voice,  Jimmie  noted  with  approval,  even  over  a 
public  telephone  was  as  gentle  as  a  cooing  dove. 

"Hello!    Give  me  Spring  3100." 

A  cold  sweat  swept  down  Jimmie's  spine.  A 
man  might  forget  his  birthday,  his  middle  name, 
his  own  telephone  number,  but  not  Spring  3100! 

Every  drama  of  the  underworld,  crook  play,  and 
detective  story  had  helped  to  make  it  famous. 

Jimmie  stood  not  upon  the  order  of  his  going. 
Even  while  police  headquarters  was  telling  the 
prince  to  get  the  Forty-seventh  Street  police  sta 
tion,  Jimmie  had  torn  open  the  front  door  and 
was  leaping  down  the  steps. 

Not  until  he  reached  Sixth  Avenue,  where  if  a 
man  is  seen  running  every  one  takes  a  chance 
and  yells  "Stop  thief!"  did  Jimmie  draw  a  halt. 
Then  he  burst  forth  indignantly. 

"How  was  I  to  know  he  was  honest!"  he 
panted.  "He's  a  hell  of  a  clairvoyant!" 

With  indignation  as  great  the  prince  was  gaz 
ing  at  the  blonde  secretary;  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  amazement. 

"Am  I  going  dippy?"  he  demanded.  "I 
sized  him  up  for  a  detective — and  he  was  a  per- 

Si 


Playing  Dead 

fectly  honest  crook!  And  in  five  minutes,"  he 
roared  remorsefully,  "this  house  will  be  full  of 
bulls!  What  am  I  to  do?  What  am  I  to  tell 
'em?" 

"Tell  'em,"  said  the  blonde  coldly,  "you're 
going  on  a  long  journey." 

Jimmie  now  appreciated  that  when  he  de 
termined  it  was  best  he  should  work  without  an 
accomplice  he  was  most  wise.  He  must  work 
alone  and,  lest  the  clairvoyant  had  set  the  police 
after  him,  at  once.  He  decided  swiftly  that  that 
night  he  would  return  to  his  own  house,  and  that 
he  would  return  as  a  burglar.  From  its  hiding- 
place  he  would  rescue  the  missing  will  and  re 
store  it  to  the  safe.  By  placing  it  among  papers 
of  little  importance  he  hoped  to  persuade  those 
who  already  had  searched  the  safe  that  through 
their  own  carelessness  it  had  been  overlooked. 
The  next  morning,  when  once  more  it  was  where 
the  proper  persons  could  find  it,  he  would  again 
take  ship  for  foreign  parts.  Jimmie  recognized 
that  this  was  a  desperate  plan,  but  the  situation 
was  desperate. 

And  so  midnight  found  him  entering  the 
grounds  upon  which  he  never  again  had  hoped 
to  place  his  foot. 

The  conditions  were  in  his  favor.  The  night 
82 


Playing  Dead 

was  warm,  which  meant  windows  would  be  left 
open;  few  stars  were  shining,  and  as  he  tiptoed 
across  the  lawn  the  trees  and  bushes  wrapped  him 
in  shadows.  Inside  the  hedge,  through  which  he 
had  forced  his  way,  he  had  left  his  shoes,  and  he 
moved  in  silence.  Except  that  stealing  into  the 
house  where  lay  asleep  the  wife  he  so  dearly 
loved  made  a  cruel  assault  upon  his  feelings,  the 
adventure  presented  no  difficulties.  Of  ways 
of  entering  his  house  Jimmie  knew  a  dozen,  and, 
once  inside,  from  cellar  to  attic  he  could  move 
blindfolded.  His  bedroom,  where  was  the  copy 
of  "Pickwick"  in  which  he  had  placed  the  will,  was 
separated  from  his  wife's  bedroom  by  her  boudoir. 
The  walls  were  thick;  through  them  no  ordinary 
sound  could  penetrate,  and,  unless  since  his  de 
parture  Jeanne  had  moved  her  maid  or  some 
other  chaperon  into  his  bedroom,  he  could  ran 
sack  it  at  his  leisure.  The  safe  in  which  he  would 
replace  the  will  was  in  the  dining-room.  From 
the  sleeping-quarters  of  Preston,  the  butler,  and 
the  other  servants  it  was  far  removed. 

Cautiously  in  the  black  shadows  of  the  trees 
Jimmie  reconnoitred.  All  that  was  in  evidence 
reassured  him.  The  old  farmhouse  lay  sunk  in 
slumber,  and,  though  in  the  lower  hall  a  lamp 
burned,  Jimmie  knew  it  was  lit  only  that,  in  case 

83 


Playing  Dead 

of  fire  or  of  an  intruder  like  himself,  it  might 
show  the  way  to  the  telephone.  For  a  moment  a 
lace  curtain  fluttering  at  an  open  window  startled 
him,  but  in  an  instant  he  was  reassured,  and  had 
determined  through  that  window  to  make  his 
entrance.  He  stepped  out  of  the  shadows  toward 
the  veranda,  and  at  once  something  warm  brushed 
his  leg,  something  moist  touched  his  hand. 

Huang  Su,  his  black  chow,  was  welcoming  him 
home.  In  a  sudden  access  of  fright  and  pleasure 
Jimmie  dropped  to  his  knees.  He  had  not  known 
he  had  been  so  lonely.  He  smothered  the  black 
bear  in  his  hands.  Huang  Su  withdrew  hastily. 
The  dignity  of  his  breed  forbade  man-handling, 
and  at  a  safe  distance  he  stretched  himself  nerv 
ously  and  yawned. 

Jimmie  stepped  to  the  railing  of  the  veranda, 
raised  his  foot  to  a  cleat  of  the  awning,  and  swung 
himself  sprawling  upon  the  veranda  roof.  On  hands 
and  knees  across  the  shingles,  still  warm  from 
the  sun,  he  crept  to  the  open  window.  There  for 
some  minutes,  while  his  eyes  searched  the  room, 
he  remained  motionless.  When  his  eyes  grew 
used  to  the  semidarkness  he  saw  that  the  bed 
lay  flat,  that  the  door  to  the  boudoir  was  shut, 
that  the  room  was  empty.  As  he  moved  across 
it  toward  the  bookcase,  his  stockinged  feet  on 


Playing  Dead 

the  bare  oak  floor  gave  forth  no  sound.  He  as 
sured  himself  there  was  no  occasion  for  alarm. 
But  when,  with  the  electric  torch  with  which  he 
had  prepared  himself,  he  swept  the  book-shelves, 
he  suffered  all  the  awful  terrors  of  a  thief. 

His  purpose  was  to  restore  a  lost  fortune;  had 
he  been  intent  on  stealing  one  he  could  not  have 
felt  more  deeply  guilty.  At  last  the  tiny  shaft 
of  light  fell  upon  the  title  of  the  "Pickwick 
Papers."  With  shaking  fingers  Jimmie  drew  the 
book  toward  him.  In  his  hands  it  fell  open,  and 
before  him  lay  "The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 
James  Blagwin,  Esquire." 

With  an  effort  Jimmie  choked  a  cry  of  delight. 
He  had  reason  to  feel  relief.  In  dragging  the 
will  from  its  hiding-place  he  had  put  behind  him 
the  most  difficult  part  of  his  adventure;  the  final 
ceremony  of  replacing  it  in  the  safe  was  a  matter 
only  of  minutes.  With  self-satisfaction  Jimmie 
smiled;  in  self-pity  he  sighed  miserably.  For, 
when  those  same  minutes  had  passed,  again  he 
would  be  an  exile.  As  soon  as  he  had  set  his 
house  in  order,  he  must  leave  it,  and  once  more 
upon  the  earth  become  a  wanderer  and  an  outcast. 

The  knob  of  the  door  from  the  bedroom  he 
grasped  softly  and,  as  he  turned  it,  firmly.  Stealth 
ily,  with  infinite  patience  and  stepping  close  to 


Playing  Dead 

the  wall,  he  descended  the  stairs,  tiptoed  across 
the  hall,  and  entered  the  living-room.  On  the 
lower  floor  he  knew  he  was  alone.  No  longer,  like 
Oliver  Twist  breaking  into  the  scullery  of  Mr. 
Giles,  need  he  move  in  dreadful  fear.  But  as  a 
cautious  general,  even  when  he  advances,  maps 
out  his  line  of  retreat,  before  approaching  the  safe 
Jimmie  prepared  his  escape.  The  only  entrances 
to  the  dining-room  were  through  the  living-room, 
in  which  he  stood,  and  from  the  butler's  pantry. 
It  was  through  the  latter  he  determined  to  make 
his  exit.  He  crossed  the  dining-room,  and  in  the 
pantry  cautiously  raised  the  window,  and  on  the 
floor  below  placed  a  chair.  If  while  at  work 
upon  the  safe  he  were  interrupted,  to  reach  the 
lawn  he  had  but  to  thrust  back  the  door  to  the 
pantry,  leap  to  the  chair,  and  through  the  open 
window  fall  upon  the  grass.  If  his  possible  pur 
suers  gave  him  time,  he  would  retrieve  his  shoes; 
if  not,  he  would  abandon  them.  They  had  not 
been  made  to  his  order,  but  bought  in  the  Sixth 
Avenue  store  where  he  was  unknown,  and  they 
had  been  delivered  to  a  man  named  Henry  Hull. 
If  found,  instead  of  compromising  him,  they  rather 
would  help  to  prove  the  intruder  was  a  stranger. 
Having  arranged  his  get-away,  Jimmie  re 
turned  to  the  living-room.  In  defiance  of  caution 

86 


Playing  Dead 

and  that  he  might  carry  with  him  a  farewell 
picture  of  the  place  where  for  years  he  had  been 
so  supremely  happy,  he  swept  it  with  his  torch. 

The  light  fell  upon  Jeanne's  writing-desk  and 
there  halted.  Jimmie  gave  a  low  gasp  of  pleasure 
and  surprise.  In  the  shaft  of  light,  undisturbed 
in  their  silver  frames  and  in  their  place  of  honor, 
he  saw  three  photographs  of  himself.  The  tears 
came  to  his  eyes.  Then  Jeanne  had  not  cast 
him  utterly  into  outer  darkness.  She  still  re 
membered  him  kindly,  still  held  for  him  a  feeling 
of  good  will.  Jimmie  sighed  gratefully.  The 
sacrifice  he  had  made  for  the  happiness  of  Jeanne 
and  Maddox  now  seemed  easier  to  bear.  And 
that  happiness  must  not  be  jeopardized. 

More  than  ever  before  the  fact  that  he,  a  dead 
man,  must  not  be  seen,  impressed  him  deeply. 
At  the  slightest  sound,  at  even  the  suggestion  of 
an  alarm,  he  must  fly.  The  will  might  take  care 
of  itself.  In  case  he  were  interrupted,  where  he 
dropped  it  there  must  it  lie.  The  fact  of  supreme 
importance  was  that  unrecognized  he  should  es 
cape. 

The  walls  of  the  dining-room  were  covered  with 
panels  of  oak,  and  built  into  the  jog  of  the  fire 
place  and  concealed  by  a  movable  panel  was  the 
safe.  In  front  of  it  Jimmie  sank  to  his  knees  and 


Playing  Dead 

pushed  back  the  panel.  Propped  upon  a  chair 
behind  him,  the  electric  torch  threw  its  shaft  of 
light  full  upon  the  combination  lock.  On  the 
floor,  ready  to  his  hand,  lay  the  will. 

The  combination  was  not  difficult.  It  required 
two  turns  left,  three  right,  and  in  conjunction  two 
numerals.  While  so  intent  upon  his  work  that 
he  scarcely  breathed,  Jimmie  spun  the  knob. 
Then  he  tugged  gently,  and  the  steel  door  swung 
toward  him. 

At  the  same  moment,  from  behind  him,  a  me 
tallic  click  gave  an  instant's  warning,  and  then 
the  room  was  flooded  with  light. 

From  his  knees,  in  one  bound,  Jimmie  flung 
himself  toward  his  avenue  of  escape. 

It  was  blocked  by  the  bulky  form  of  Preston, 
the  butler. 

Jimmie  turned  and  doubled  back  to  the  door 
of  the  living-room.  He  found  himself  confronted 
by  his  wife. 

The  sleeve  of  her  night-dress  had  fallen  to  her 
shoulder  and  showed  her  white  arm  extended 
toward  him.  In  her  hand,  pointing,  was  an 
automatic  pistol. 

Already  dead,  Jimmie  feared  nothing  but  dis 
covery. 

The  door  to  the  living-room  was  wide  enough 
88 


Playing  Dead 

for  two.  With  his  head  down  he  sprang  toward 
it.  There  was  a  report  that  seemed  to  shake  the 
walls,  and  something  like  the  blow  of  a  night 
stick  knocked  his  leg  from  under  him  and  threw 
him  on  his  back.  The  next  instant  Preston  had 
landed  with  both  knees  on  his  lower  ribs  and  was 
squeezing  his  windpipe. 

Jimmie  felt  he  was  drowning.  Around  him 
millions  of  stars  danced.  And  then  from  an 
other  world,  in  a  howl  of  terror,  the  voice  of 
Preston  screamed.  The  hands  of  the  butler  re 
leased  their  hold  upon  his  throat.  As  suddenly 
as  he  had  thrown  himself  upon  him  he  now  re 
coiled. 

"It's  'im!"  he  shouted;  "it's  'im!" 

"Him?"  demanded  Jeanne. 

"It's  Mr.  Blagwin!" 

Unlike  Preston,  Jeanne  did  not  scream;  nor 
did  she  faint.  So  greatly  did  she  desire  to  believe 
that  "'im"  was  her  husband,  that  he  still  was  in 
the  same  world  with  herself,  that  she  did  not  ask 
how  he  had  escaped  from  the  other  world,  or  why, 
having  escaped,  he  spent  his  time  robbing  his 
own  house. 

Instead,  much  like  Preston,  she  threw  herself 
at  him  and  in  her  young,  firm  arms  lifted  him  and 
held  him  close. 


Playing  Dead 

"Jimmie!"  she  cried,  "speak  to  me;  speak 
tome!" 

The  blow  on  the  back  of  the  head,  the  throttling 
by  Preston,  the  "stopping  power"  of  the  bullet, 
even  though  it  passed  only  through  his  leg,  had 
left  Jimmie  somewhat  confused.  He  knew  only 
that  it  was  a  dream.  But  wonderful  as  it  was  to 
dream  that  once  more  he  was  with  Jeanne,  that 
she  clung  to  him,  needed  and  welcomed  him,  he 
could  not  linger  to  enjoy  the  dream.  He  was 
dead.  If  not,  he  must  escape.  Honor  compelled 
it.  He  made  a  movement  to  rise,  and  fell  back. 

The  voice  of  Preston,  because  he  had  choked 
his  master,  full  of  remorse,  and,  because  his 
mistress  had  shot  him,  full  of  reproach,  rose  in 
dismay: 

"You've  'it  'im  in  the  leg,  ma'am!" 

Jimmie  heard  Jeanne  protest  hysterically: 

"That's  nothing,  he's  alive!"  she  cried.  "I'd 
hit  him  again  if  it  would  only  make  him  speak!'9 
She  pressed  the  bearded  face  against  her  own. 
"Speak  to  me,"  she  whispered;  "tell  me  you  for 
give  me.  Tell  me  you  love  me !" 

Jimmie  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at  her. 

"You  never  had  to  shoot  me,"  he  stammered, 
"to  make  me  tell  you  that.9' 


90 


THE  CARD-SHARP 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

I  HAD  looked  forward  to  spending  Christmas 
with  some  people  in  Suffolk,  and  every  one  in 
London  assured  me  that  at  their  house  there 
would  be  the  kind  of  a  Christmas  house  party 
you  hear  about  but  see  only  in  the  illustrated 
Christmas  numbers.  They  promised  mistletoe, 
snapdragon,  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  On 
Christmas  morning  we  would  walk  to  church, 
after  luncheon  we  would  shoot,  after  dinner  we 
would  eat  plum  pudding  floating  in  blazing 
brandy,  dance  with  the  servants,  and  listen  to 
the  waits  singing  "God  rest  you,  merry  gentle 
men,  let  nothing  you  dismay." 

To  a  lone  American  bachelor  stranded  in  London 
it  sounded  fine.  And  in  my  gratitude  I  had  al 
ready  shipped  to  my  hostess,  for  her  children,  of 
whose  age,  number,  and  sex  I  was  ignorant,  half 
of  Carnage's  dolls,  skees,  and  cricket  bats,  and 
those  crackers  that,  when  you  pull  them,  some 
times  explode.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  Most  in 
considerately  my  wealthiest  patient  gained  suf- 

93 


The  Card-Sharp 

ficient  courage  to  consent  to  an  operation,  and  in 
all  New  York  would  permit  no  one  to  lay  violent 
hands  upon  him  save  myself.  By  cable  I  advised 
postponement.  Having  lived  in  lawful  harmony 
with  his  appendix  for  fifty  years,  I  thought,  for 
one  week  longer  he  might  safely  maintain  the 
status  quo.  But  his  cable  in  reply  was  an  ulti 
matum.  So,  on  Christmas  eve,  instead  of  Hallam 
Hall  and  a  Yule  log,  I  was  in  a  gale  plunging  and 
pitching  off  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and  the  only  log 
on  board  was  the  one  the  captain  kept  to  himself. 

I  sat  in  the  smoking-room,  depressed  and  cross, 
and  it  must  have  been  on  the  principle  that  mis 
ery  loves  company  that  I  forgathered  with  Tal- 
bot,  or  rather  that  Talbot  forgathered  with  me. 
Certainly,  under  happier  conditions  and  in  haunts 
of  men  more  crowded,  the  open-faced  manner  in 
which  he  forced  himself  upon  me  would  have  put 
me  on  my  guard.  But,  either  out  of  deference  to 
the  holiday  spirit,  as  manifested  in  the  fictitious 
gayety  of  our  few  fellow  passengers,  or  because 
the  young  man  in  a  knowing,  impertinent  way 
was  most  amusing,  I  listened  to  him  from  dinner 
time  until  midnight,  when  the  chief  officer,  hung 
with  snow  and  icicles,  was  blown  in  from  the 
deck  and  wished  all  a  merry  Christmas. 

Even  after  they  unmasked  Talbot  I  had  neither 
94 


The  Card-Sharp 

the  heart  nor  the  inclination  to  turn  him  down. 
Indeed,  had  not  some  of  the  passengers  testified 
that  I  belonged  to  a  different  profession,  the 
smoking-room  crowd  would  have  quarantined  me 
as  his  accomplice.  On  the  first  night  I  met  him 
I  was  not  certain  whether  he  was  English  or  giving 
an  imitation.  All  the  outward  and  visible  signs 
were  English,  but  he  told  me  that,  though  he  had 
been  educated  at  Oxford  and  since  then  had  spent 
most  of  his  years  in  India,  playing  polo,  he  was 
an  American.  He  seemed  to  have  spent  much 
time,  and  according  to  himself  much  money,  at 
the  French  watering-places  and  on  the  Riviera. 
I  felt  sure  that  it  was  in  France  I  had  already 
seen  him,  but  where  I  could  not  recall.  He  was 
hard  to  place.  Of  people  at  home  and  in  London 
well  worth  knowing  he  talked  glibly,  but  in  speak 
ing  of  them  he  made  several  slips.  It  was  his 
taking  the  trouble  to  cover  up  the  slips  that  first 
made  me  wonder  if  his  talking  about  himself  was 
not  mere  vanity,  but  had  some  special  object. 
I  felt  he  was  presenting  letters  of  introduction 
in  order  that  later  he  might  ask  a  favor.  Whether 
he  was  leading  up  to  an  immediate  loan,  or  in 
New  York  would  ask  for  a  card  to  a  club,  or  an 
introduction  to  a  banker,  I  could  not  tell.  But 
in  forcing  himself  upon  me,  except  in  self-interest, 

95 


The  Card-Sharp 

I  could  think  of  no  other  motive.  The  next  eve 
ning  I  discovered  the  motive. 

He  was  in  the  smoking-room  playing  solitaire, 
and  at  once  I  recalled  that  it  was  at  Aix-les-Bains 
I  had  first  seen  him,  and  that  he  held  a  bank  at 
baccarat.  When  he  asked  me  to  sit  down  I  said: 
"I  saw  you  last  summer  at  Aix-les-Bains." 

His  eyes  fell  to  the  pack  in  his  hands  and  ap 
parently  searched  it  for  some  particular  card. 

"What  was  I  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Dealing  baccarat  at  the  Casino  des  Fleurs." 

With  obvious  relief  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  assented;  "jolly  place,  Aix.  But 
I  lost  a  pot  of  money  there.  I'm  a  rotten  hand 
at  cards.  Can't  win,  and  can't  leave  'em  alone." 
As  though  for  this  weakness,  so  frankly  confessed, 
he  begged  me  to  excuse  him,  he  smiled  appeal- 
ingly.  "Poker,  bridge,  chemin  de  fer,  I  like  'em 
all,"  he  rattled  on,  "but  they  don't  like  me.  So 
I  stick  to  solitaire.  It's  dull,  but  cheap."  He 
shuffled  the  cards  clumsily.  As  though  making 
conversation,  he  asked:  "You  care  for  cards  your 
self?" 

I  told  him  truthfully  I  did  not  know  the  differ 
ence  between  a  club  and  a  spade  and  had  no 
curiosity  to  learn.  At  this,  when  he  found  he 
had  been  wasting  time  on  me,  I  expected  him  to 

96 


The  Card-Sharp 

show  some  sign  of  annoyance,  even  of  irritation, 
but  his  disappointment  struck  far  deeper.  As 
though  I  had  hurt  him  physically,  he  shut  his 
eyes,  and  when  again  he  opened  them  I  saw  in 
them  distress.  For  the  moment  I  believe  of  my 
presence  he  was  utterly  unconscious.  His  hands 
lay  idle  upon  the  table;  like  a  man  facing  a  crisis, 
he  stared  before  him.  Quite  improperly,  I  felt 
sorry  for  him.  In  me  he  thought  he  had  found  a 
victim;  and  that  the  loss  of  the  few  dollars  he 
might  have  won  should  so  deeply  disturb  him 
showed  his  need  was  great.  Almost  at  once  he 
abandoned  me  and  I  went  on  deck.  When  I 
returned  an  hour  later  to  the  smoking-room  he 
was  deep  in  a  game  of  poker. 

As  I  passed  he  hailed  me  gayly. 

"Don't  scold,  now,"  he  laughed;  "you  know  I 
can't  keep  away  from  it." 

From  his  manner  those  at  the  table  might  have 
supposed  we  were  friends  of  long  and  happy  com 
panionship.  I  stopped  behind  his  chair,  but  he 
thought  I  had  passed,  and  in  reply  to  one  of  the 
players  answered:  "Known  him  for  years;  he's  set 
me  right  many  a  time.  When  I  broke  my  right 
femur  'chasin,'  he  got  me  back  in  the  saddle  in 
six  weeks.  All  my  people  swear  by  him." 

One  of  the  players  smiled  up  at  me,  and  Talbot 
97 


The  Card-Sharp 

turned.  But  his  eyes  met  mine  with  perfect 
serenity.  He  even  held  up  his  cards  for  me  to  see. 
"What  would  you  draw?"  he  asked. 

His  audacity  so  astonished  me  that  in  silence  I 
could  only  stare  at  him  and  walk  on. 

When  on  deck  he  met  me  he  was  not  even 
apologetic.  Instead,  as  though  we  were  partners 
in  crime,  he  chuckled  delightedly. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said.  "  Had  to  do  it.  They  weren't 
very  keen  at  my  taking  a  hand,  so  I  had  to  use 
your  name.  But  I'm  all  right  now,"  he  assured 
me.  "They  think  you  vouched  for  me,  and  to 
night  they're  going  to  raise  the  limit.  I've  con 
vinced  them  I'm  an  easy  mark." 

"And  I  take  it  you  are  not,"  I  said  stiffly. 

He  considered  this  unworthy  of  an  answer  and 
only  smiled.  Then  the  smile  died,  and  again  in 
his  eyes  I  saw  distress,  infinite  weariness,  and  fear. 

As  though  his  thoughts  drove  him  to  seek  pro 
tection,  he  came  closer. 

"I'm  'in  bad,'  doctor,"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
frightened,  bewildered,  like  that  of  a  child.  "I 
can't  sleep;  nerves  all  on  the  loose.  I  don't  think 
straight.  I  hear  voices,  and  no  one  around.  I 
hear  knockings  at  the  door,  and  when  I  open  it, 
no  one  there.  If  I  don't  keep  fit  I  can't  work, 
and  this  trip  I  got  to  make  expenses.  You 

98 


The  Card-Sharp 

couldn't  help  me,  could  you — couldn't  give  me 
something  to  keep  my  head  straight?" 

The  need  of  my  keeping  his  head  straight  that 
he  might  the  easier  rob  our  fellow  passengers 
raised  a  pretty  question  of  ethics.  I  meanly 
dodged  it.  I  told  him  professional  etiquette  re 
quired  I  should  leave  him  to  the  ship's  surgeon. 

"But  I  don't  know  him"  he  protested. 

Mindful  of  the  use  he  had  made  of  my  name,  I 
objected  strenuously: 

"Well,  you  certainly  don't  know  me." 

My  resentment  obviously  puzzled  him. 

"I  know  who  you  are"  he  returned.  "You  and 
I — "  With  a  deprecatory  gesture,  as  though  good 
taste  forbade  him  saying  who  we  were,  he  stopped. 
"But  the  ship's  surgeon!"  he  protested;  "he's  an 
awful  bounder !  Besides,"  he  added  quite  simply, 
"he's  watching  me." 

"As  a  doctor,"  I  asked,  "or  watching  you  play 
cards?" 

"Play  cards,"  the  young  man  answered.  "I'm 
afraid  he  was  ship's  surgeon  on  the  P.  &  O.  I 
came  home  on.  There  was  trouble  that  voyage, 
and  I  fancy  he  remembers  me." 

His  confidences  were  becoming  a  nuisance. 

"But  you  mustn't  tell  me  that,"  I  protested. 
"I  can't  have  you  making  trouble  on  this  ship, 

99 


The  Card-Sharp 

too.    How  do  you  know  I  won't  go  straight  from 
here  to  the  captain  ?" 

As  though  the  suggestion  greatly  entertained 
him,  he  laughed. 

He  made  a  mock  obeisance. 

"I  claim  the  seal  of  your  profession,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense,"  I  retorted.  "It's  a  professional 
secret  that  your  nerves  are  out  of  hand,  but  that 
you  are  a  card-sharp  is  not.  Don't  mix  me  up 
with  a  priest." 

For  a  moment  Talbot,  as  though  fearing  he  had 
gone  too  far,  looked  at  me  sharply;  he  bit  his 
lower  lip  and  frowned. 

"I  got  to  make  expenses,"  he  muttered.  "And, 
besides,  all  card  games  are  games  of  chance,  and  a 
card-sharp  is  one  of  the  chances.  Anyway,"  he 
repeated,  as  though  disposing  of  all  argument, 
"I  got  to  make  expenses." 

After  dinner,  when  I  came  to  the  smoking-room, 
the  poker  party  sat  waiting,  and  one  of  them 
asked  if  I  knew  where  they  could  find  "my 
friend."  I  should  have  said  then  that  Talbot 
was  a  steamer  acquaintance  only;  but  I  hate  a 
row,  and  I  let  the  chance  pass. 

"We  want  to  give  him  his  revenge,"  one  of 
them  volunteered. 

"He's  losing,  then?"  I  asked. 
100 


The  Card-Sharp 

The  man  chuckled  complacently. 

"The  only  loser,"  he  said. 

"I  wouldn't  worry,"  I  advised.  "He'll  come 
for  his  revenge." 

That  night  after  I  had  turned  in  he  knocked  at 
my  door.  I  switched  on  the  lights  and  saw  him 
standing  at  the  foot  of  my  berth.  I  saw  also 
that  with  difficulty  he  was  holding  himself  in 
hand. 

"I'm  scared,"  he  stammered,  "scared!" 

I  wrote  out  a  requisition  on  the  surgeon  for  a 
sleeping-potion  and  sent  it  to  him  by  the  steward, 
giving  the  man  to  understand  I  wanted  it  for  my 
self.  Uninvited,  Talbot  had  seated  himself  on  the 
sofa.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  as  though  he  were 
cold  he  was  shivering  and  hugging  himself  in  his 
arms. 

"Have  you  been  drinking?"  I  asked. 

In  surprise  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"/  can't  drink,"  he  answered  simply.  "It's 
nerves  and  worry.  I'm  tired." 

He  relaxed  against  the  cushions;  his  arms  fell 
heavily  at  his  sides;  the  fingers  lay  open. 

"God,"  he  whispered,  "how  tired  I  am!" 

In  spite  of  his  tan — and  certainly  he  had  led 
the  out-of-door  life — his  face  showed  white.  For 
the  moment  he  looked  old,  worn,  finished. 

101 


The  Card-Sharp 

"They're  crowdin'  me,"  the  boy  whispered. 
"They're  always  crowdin'  me."  His  voice  was 
querulous,  uncomprehending,  like  that  of  a  child 
complaining  of  something  beyond  his  experience. 
"I  can't  remember  when  they  haven't  been 
crowdin'  me.  Movin'  me  on,  you  understand  ? 
Always  movin'  me  on.  Moved  me  out  of  India, 
then  Cairo,  then  they  closed  Paris,  and  now  they've 
shut  me  out  of  London.  I  opened  a  club  there, 
very  quiet,  very  exclusive,  smart  neighborhood, 
too  —  a  flat  in  Berkeley  Street  —  roulette  and 
chemin  de  fer.  I  think  it  was  my  valet  sold  me 
out;  anyway,  they  came  in  and  took  us  all  to 
Bow  Street.  So  I've  plunged  on  this.  It's  my 
last  chance !" 

"This  trip?" 

"No;  my  family  in  New  York.  Haven't  seen 
'em  in  ten  years.  They  paid  me  to  live  abroad. 
I'm  gambling  on  them;  gambling  on  their  takin' 
me  back.  I'm  coming  home  as  the  Prodigal  Son, 
tired  of  filling  my  belly  with  the  husks  that  the 
swine  do  eat;  reformed  character,  repentant  and 
all  that;  want  to  follow  the  straight  and  narrow; 
and  they'll  kill  the  fatted  calf."  He  laughed 
sardonically.  "Like  hell  they  will!  They'd 
rather  see  me  killed." 

It  seemed  to  me,  if  he  wished  his  family  to  be- 

102 


The  Card-Sharp 

lieve  he  were  returning  repentant,  his  course  in 
the  smoking-room  would  not  help  to  reassure 
them.  I  suggested  as  much. 

"If  you  get  into  'trouble,'  as  you  call  it,"  I  said, 
"and  they  send  a  wireless  to  the  police  to  be  at 
the  wharf,  your  people  would  hardly " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted;  "but  I  got  to  chance 
that.  I  got  to  make  enough  to  go  on  with — until 
I  see  my  family." 

"If  they  won't  see  you?"  I  asked.  "What 
then  r 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sighed  lightly, 
almost  with  relief,  as  though  for  him  the  prospect 
held  no  terror. 

"Then  it's  'Good  night,  nurse,' '  he  said. 
"And  I  won't  be  a  bother  to  anybody  any 


more." 


I  told  him  his  nerves  were  talking,  and  talking 
rot,  and  I  gave  him  the  sleeping-draft  and  sent 
him  to  bed. 

It  was  not  until  after  luncheon  the  next  day 
when  he  made  his  first  appearance  on  deck  that  I 
again  saw  my  patient.  He  was  once  more  a 
healthy  picture  of  a  young  Englishman  of  leisure; 
keen,  smart,  and  fit;  ready  for  any  exercise  or 
sport.  The  particular  sport  at  which  he  was  so 
expert  I  asked  him  to  avoid. 

103 


The  Card-Sharp 

"Can't  be  done!"  he  assured  me.  "I'm  the 
loser,  and  we  dock  to-morrow  morning.  So  to 
night  I've  got  to  make  my  killing." 

It  was  the  others  who  made  the  killing. 

I  came  into  the  smoking-room  about  nine 
o'clock.  Talbot  alone  was  seated.  The  others 
were  on  their  feet,  and  behind  them  in  a  wider 
semicircle  were  passengers,  the  smoking-room 
stewards,  and  the  ship's  purser. 

Talbot  sat  with  his  back  against  the  bulk 
head,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  dinner  coat; 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  his  long  cigarette- 
holder  was  cocked  at  an  impudent  angle.  There 
was  a  tumult  of  angry  voices,  and  the  eyes  of  all 
were  turned  upon  him.  Outwardly  at  least  he 
met  them  with  complete  indifference.  The  voice 
of  one  of  my  countrymen,  a  noisy  pest  named 
Smedburg,  was  raised  in  excited  accusation. 

"When  the  ship's  surgeon  first  met  you,"  he 
cried,  "you  called  yourself  Lord  Ridley." 

"I'll  call  myself  anything  I  jolly  well  like," 
returned  Talbot.  "If  I  choose  to  dodge  report 
ers,  that's  my  pidgin.  I  don't  have  to  give  my 
name  to  every  meddling  busybody  that " 

"You'll  give  it  to  the  police,  all  right,"  chor 
tled  Mr.  Smedburg.  In  the  confident,  bullying 
tone  of  the  man  who  knows  the  crowd  is  with 

104 


The  Card-Sharp 

him,  he  shouted:  "And  in  the  meantime  you'll 
keep  out  of  this  smoking-room  !" 

The  chorus  of  assent  was  unanimous.  It  could 
not  be  disregarded.  Talbot  rose  and  with  fas 
tidious  concern  brushed  the  cigarette  ashes  from 
his  sleeve.  As  he  moved  toward  the  door  he 
called  back:  "Only  too  delighted  to  keep  out. 
The  crowd  in  this  room  makes  a  gentleman  feel 
lonely." 

But  he  was  not  to  escape  with  the  last  word. 

His  prosecutor  pointed  his  finger  at  him. 

"And  the  next  time  you  take  the  name  of 
Adolph  Meyer,"  he  shouted,  "make  sure  first  he 
hasn't  a  friend  on  board;  some  one  to  protect  him 
from  sharpers  and  swindlers " 

Talbot  turned  savagely  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil!"  he  called,  and  walked 
out  into  the  night. 

The  purser  was  standing  at  my  side  and,  catch 
ing  my  eye,  shook  his  head. 

"Bad  business,"  he  exclaimed. 

"What  happened?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  told  they  caught  him  dealing  from  the 
wrong  end  of  the  pack,"  he  said.  "I  understand 
they  suspected  him  from  the  first — seems  our 
surgeon  recognized  him — and  to-night  they  had 

105 


The  Card-Sharp 

outsiders  watching  him.  The  outsiders  claim 
they  saw  him  slip  himself  an  ace  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pack.  It's  a  pity  I  He's  a  nice-looking 
lad." 

I  asked  what  the  excited  Smedburg  had  meant 
by  telling  Talbot  not  to  call  himself  Meyer. 

"They  accused  him  of  travelling  under  a  false 
name,"  explained  the  purser,  "and  he  told  'em  he 
did  it  to  dodge  the  ship's  news  reporters.  Then 
he  said  he  really  was  a  brother  of  Adolph  Meyer, 
the  banker;  but  it  seems  Smedburg  is  a  friend 
of  Meyer's,  and  he  called  him  hard !  It  was  a 
silly  ass  thing  to  do,"  protested  the  purser. 
"Everybody  knows  Meyer  hasn't  a  brother,  and 
if  he  hadn't  made  that  break  he  might  have  got 
away  with  the  other  one.  But  now  this  Smedburg 
is  going  to  wireless  ahead  to  Mr.  Meyer  and  to 
the  police." 

"Has  he  no  other  way  of  spending  his  money  ?" 
I  asked. 

"He's  a  confounded  nuisance!"  growled  the 
purser.  "He  wants  to  show  us  he  knows  Adolph 
Meyer;  wants  to  put  Meyer  under  an  obligation. 
It  means  a  scene  on  the  wharf,  and  newspaper 
talk;  and,"  he  added  with  disgust,  "these  smoking- 
room  rows  never  helped  any  line." 

I  went  in  search  of  Talbot;  partly  because  I 
106 


The  Card-Sharp 

knew  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse,  partly, 
as  I  frankly  admitted  to  myself,  because  I  was 
sorry  the  young  man  had  come  to  grief.  I  searched 
the  snow-swept  decks,  and  then,  after  threading 
my  way  through  faintly  lit  tunnels,  I  knocked 
at  his  cabin.  The  sound  of  his  voice  gave  me  a 
distinct  feeling  of  relief.  But  he  would  not  admit 
me.  Through  the  closed  door  he  declared  he 
was  "all  right,"  wanted  no  medical  advice,  and 
asked  only  to  resume  the  sleep  he  claimed  I  had 
broken.  I  left  him,  not  without  uneasiness,  and 
the  next  morning  the  sight  of  him  still  in  the  flesh 
was  a  genuine  thrill.  I  found  him  walking  the 
deck  carrying  himself  nonchalantly  and  trying 
to  appear  unconscious  of  the  glances — amused, 
contemptuous,  hostile — that  were  turned  toward 
him.  He  would  have  passed  me  without  speak 
ing,  but  I  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to  the  rail. 
We  had  long  passed  quarantine  and  a  convoy  of 
tugs  were  butting  us  into  the  dock. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"Doesn't  depend  on  me,"  he  said.  "Depends 
on  Smedburg.  He's  a  busy  little  body!" 

The  boy  wanted  me  to  think  him  unconcerned, 
but  beneath  the  flippancy  I  saw  the  nerves  jerk 
ing.  Then  quite  simply  he  began  to  tell  me. 
He  spoke  in  a  low,  even  monotone,  dispassion- 

107 


The  Card-Sharp 

ately,  as  though  for  him  the  incident  no  longer 
was  of  interest. 

"They  were  watching  me,"  he  said.  "But  I 
knew  they  were,  and  besides,  no  matter  how 
close  they  watched  I  could  have  done  what  they 
said  I  did  and  they'd  never  have  seen  it.  But  I 
didn't." 

My  scepticism  must  have  been  obvious,  for  he 
shook  his  head. 

"I  didn't !"  he  repeated  stubbornly.  "I  didn't 
have  to !  I  was  playing  in  luck — wonderful  luck 
— sheer,  dumb  luck.  I  couldn't  help  winning. 
But  because  I  was  winning  and  because  they 
were  watching,  I  was  careful  not  to  win  on  my 
own  deal.  I  laid  down,  or  played  to  lose.  It 
was  the  cards  they  gave  me  I  won  with.  And 
when  they  jumped  me  I  told  'em  that.  I  could 
have  proved  it  if  they'd  listened.  But  they  were 
all  up  in  the  air,  shouting  and  spitting  at  me. 
They  believed  what  they  wanted  to  believe;  they 
didn't  want  the  facts," 

It  may  have  been  credulous  of  me,  but  I  felt 
the  boy  was  telling  the  truth,  and  I  was  deeply 
sorry  he  had  not  stuck  to  it.  So,  rather  harshly, 
I  said: 

"They  didn't  want  you  to  tell  them  you  were 
a  brother  to  Adolph  Meyer,  either.  Why  did  you 

108 


The  Card-Sharp 

think  you  could  get   away  with   anything  like 
that?" 

Talbot  did  not  answer. 

"Why?"  I  insisted. 

The  boy  laughed  impudently. 

"How  the  devil  was  I  to  know  he  hadn't  a 
brother?"  he  protested.  "It  was  a  good  name, 
and  he's  a  Jew,  and  two  of  the  six  who  were  in 
the  game  are  Jews.  You  know  how  they  stick 
together.  I  thought  they  might  stick  by  me." 

"But  you,"  I  retorted  impatiently,  "are  not'a 
Jew!" 

"I  am  not,"  said  Talbot,  "but  I've  often  said  I 
was.  It's  helped — lots  of  times.  If  I'd  told  you 
my  name  was  Cohen,  or  Selinsky,  or  Meyer,  in 
stead  of  Craig  Talbot,  you'd  have  thought  I  was 
a  Jew."  He  smiled  and  turned  his  face  toward 
me.  As  though  furnishing  a  description  for  the 
police,  he  began  to  enumerate: 

"Hair,  dark  and  curly;  eyes,  poppy;  lips,  full; 
nose,  Roman  or  Hebraic,  according  to  taste. 
Do  you  see  ? " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  it  didn't  work,"  he  concluded.  "I 
picked  the  wrong  Jew." 

His  face  grew  serious.  "Do  you  suppose  that 
Smedburg  person  has  wirelessed  that  banker?" 

109 


The  Card-Sharp 

I  told  him  I  was  afraid  he  had  already  sent  the 
message. 

"And  what  will  Meyer  do  ?"  he  asked.  "Will 
he  drop  it  or  make  a  fuss  ?  What  sort  is  he  ?" 

Briefly  I  described  Adolph  Meyer.  I  explained 
him  as  the  richest  Hebrew  in  New  York;  given 
to  charity,  to  philanthropy,  to  the  betterment  of 
his  own  race." 

"Then  maybe,"  cried  Talbot  hopefully,  "he 
won't  make  a  row,  and  my  family  won't  hear  of 
it!" 

He  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  As  though 
a  burden  had  been  lifted,  his  shoulders  straight 
ened. 

And  then  suddenly,  harshly,  in  open  panic,  he 
exclaimed  aloud: 

"Look!"  he  whispered.  "There,  at  the  end 
of  the  wharf — the  little  Jew  in  furs  !" 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  Below 
us  on  the  dock,  protected  by  two  obvious  mem 
bers  of  the  strong-arm  squad,  the  great  banker, 
philanthropist,  and  Hebrew,  Adolph  Meyer,  was 
waiting. 

We  were  so  close  that  I  could  read  his  face. 
It  was  stern,  set;  the  face  of  a  man  intent  upon  his 
duty,  unrelenting.  Without  question,  of  a  bad 
business  Mr.  Smedburg  had  made  the  worst. 

no 


The  Card-Sharp 

I   turned   to   speak   to  Talbot   and   found   him 
gone. 

His  silent  slipping  away  filled  me  with  alarm. 
I  fought  against  a  growing  fear.  How  many 
minutes  I  searched  for  him  I  do  not  know.  It 
seemed  many  hours.  His  cabin,  where  first  I 
sought  him,  was  empty  and  dismantled,  and  by 
that  I  was  reminded  that  if  for  any  desperate 
purpose  Talbot  were  seeking  to  conceal  himself 
there  now  were  hundreds  of  other  empty,  disman 
tled  cabins  in  which  he  might  hide.  To  my  in 
quiries  no  one  gave  heed.  In  the  confusion  of 
departure  no  one  had  observed  him;  no  one  was 
in  a  humor  to  seek  him  out;  the  passengers  were 
pressing  to  the  gangway,  the  stewards  concerned 
only  in  counting  their  tips.  From  deck  to  deck, 
down  lane  after  lane  of  the  great  floating  village, 
I  raced  blindly,  peering  into  half-opened  doors, 
pushing  through  groups  of  men,  pursuing  some 
one  in  the  distance  who  appeared  to  be  the  man  I 
sought,  only  to  find  he  was  unknown  to  me. 
When  I  returned  to  the  gangway  the  last  of  the 
passengers  was  leaving  it. 

I  was  about  to  follow  to  seek  for  Talbot  in  the 
customs  shed  when  a  white-faced  steward  touched 
my  sleeve.  Before  he  spoke  his  look  told  me  why 
I  was  wanted. 

in 


The  Card-Sharp 

"The  ship's  surgeon,  sir,"  he  stammered, 
"asks  you  please  to  hurry  to  the  sick-bay.  A 
passenger  has  shot  himself!" 

On  the  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows,  young  Tal- 
bot,  with  glazed,  shocked  eyes,  stared  at  me. 
His  shirt  had  been  cut  away;  his  chest  lay  bare. 
Against  his  left  shoulder  the  doctor  pressed  a 
tiny  sponge  which  quickly  darkened. 

I  must  have  exclaimed  aloud,  for  the  doctor 
turned  his  eyes. 

"It  was  he  sent  for  you,"  he  said,  "but  he 
doesn't  need  you.  Fortunately,  he's  a  damned 
bad  shot!" 

The  boy's  eyes  opened  wearily;  before  we  could 
prevent  it  he  spoke. 

"I  was  so  tired,"  he  whispered.  "Always 
moving  me  on.  I  was  so  tired !" 

Behind  me  came  heavy  footsteps,  and  though 
with  my  arm  I  tried  to  bar  them  out,  the  two  de 
tectives  pushed  into  the  doorway.  They  shoved 
me  to  one  side  and  through  the  passage  made  for 
him  came  the  Jew  in  the  sable  coat,  Mr.  Adolph 
Meyer. 

For  an  instant  the  little  great  man  stood  with 
wide,  owl-like  eyes,  staring  at  the  face  on  the  pillow. 

Then  he  sank  softly  to  his  knees.  In  both  his 
hands  he  caught  the  hand  of  the  card-sharp. 

112 


The  Card-Sharp 

"Heine!"  he  begged.  "Don't  you  know  me? 
It  is  your  brother  Adolph;  your  little  brother 
Adolph!" 


113 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

HAD  the  Wilmot  Electric  Light  people  re 
mained  content  only  to  make  light,  had 
they  not,  as  a  by-product,  attempted  to  make 
money,  they  need  not  have  left  Hayti. 

When  they  flooded  with  radiance  the  unpaved 
streets  of  Port-au-Prince  no  one,  except  the  police, 
who  complained  that  the  lights  kept  them  awake, 
made  objection;  but  when  for  this  illumination 
the  Wilmot  Company  demanded  payment,  every 
one  up  to  President  Hamilcar  Poussevain  was  sur 
prised  and  grieved.  So  grieved  was  President 
Ham,  as  he  was  lovingly  designated,  that  he 
withdrew  the  Wilmot  concession,  surrounded  the 
power-house  with  his  barefooted  army,  and  in  a 
proclamation  announced  that  for  the  future  the 
furnishing  of  electric  light  would  be  a  monopoly 
of  the  government. 

In  Hayti,  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  make  money, 
any  industry,  native  or  foreign,  becomes  a  monop 
oly  of  the  government.  The  thing  works  auto 
matically.  It  is  what  in  Hayti  is  understood  as 

117 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

haut  finance.  The  Wilmot  people  should  have 
known  that.  Because  they  did  not  know  that, 
they  stood  to  lose  what  they  had  sunk  in  the 
electric-light  plant,  and  after  their  departure  to 
New  York,  which  departure  was  accelerated  as 
far  as  the  wharf  by  seven  generals  and  twelve 
privates,  they  proceeded  to  lose  more  money  on 
lobbyists  and  lawyers  who  claimed  to  understand 
international  law;  even  the  law  of  Hayti.  And 
lawyers  who  understand  that  are  high-priced. 

The  only  employee  of  the  Wilmot  force  who  was 
not  escorted  to  the  wharf  under  guard  was  Billy 
Barlow.  He  escaped  the  honor  because  he  was 
superintendent  of  the  power-house,  and  President 
Ham  believed  that  without  him  the  lightning 
would  not  strike.  Accordingly  by  an  executive 
order  Billy  became  an  employee  of  the  government. 
With  this  arrangement  the  Wilmot  people  were 
much  pleased.  For  they  trusted  Billy,  and  they 
knew  while  in  the  courts  they  were  fighting  to 
regain  their  property,  he  would  see  no  harm  came 
to  it. 

Billy's  title  was  Directeur  General  et  Inspecteur 
Municipal  de  Luminaire  Electrique,  which  is  some 
title,  and  his  salary  was  fifty  dollars  a  week.  In 
spite  of  Billy's  color  President  Ham  always 
treated  his  only  white  official  with  courtesy  and 

118 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

gave  him  his  full  title.  About  giving  him  his  full 
salary  he  was  less  particular.  This  neglect  greatly 
annoyed  Billy.  He  came  of  sturdy  New  England 
stock  and  possessed  that  New  England  conscience 
which  makes  the  owner  a  torment  to  himself,  and 
to  every  one  else  a  nuisance.  Like  all  the  other 
Barlows  of  Barnstable  on  Cape  Cod,  Billy  had 
worked  for  his  every  penny.  He  was  no  shirker. 
From  the  first  day  that  he  carried  a  pair  of  pliers 
in  the  leg  pocket  of  his  overalls,  and  in  a  sixty- 
knot  gale  stretched  wires  between  ice-capped 
telegraph  poles,  he  had  more  than  earned  his 
wages.  Never,  whether  on  time  or  at  piece-work, 
had  he  by  a  slovenly  job,  or  by  beating  the  whis 
tle,  robbed  his  employer.  And  for  his  honest  toil 
he  was  determined  to  be  as  honestly  paid — even 
by  President  Hamilcar  Poussevain.  And  Presi 
dent  Ham  never  paid  anybody;  neither  the  Ar 
menian  street  peddlers,  in  whose  sweets  he  de 
lighted,  nor  the  Bethlehem  Steel  Company,  nor 
the  house  of  Rothschild. 

Why  he  paid  Billy  even  the  small  sums  that 
from  time  to  time  Billy  wrung  from  the  presi 
dent's  strong  box  the  foreign  colony  were  at  a 
loss  to  explain.  Wagner,  the  new  American 
consul,  asked  Billy  how  he  managed  it.  As  an 
American  minister  had  not  yet  been  appointed, 

119 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

to  the  duties  of  the  consul,  as  Wagner  assured 
everybody,  were  added  those  of  diplomacy. 
But  Haytian  diplomacy  he  had  yet  to  master. 
At  the  seaport  in  Scotland  where  he  had  served 
as  vice-consul,  law  and  order  were  as  solidly  es 
tablished  as  the  stone  jetties,  and  by  contrast 
the  eccentricities  of  the  Black  Republic  baffled 
and  distressed  him. 

"It  can't  be  that  you  blackmail  the  president," 
said  the  consul,  "because  I  understand  he  boasts 
he  has  committed  all  the  known  crimes." 

"And  several  he  invented,"  agreed  Billy. 

"And  you  can't  do  it  with  a  gun,  because  they 
tell  me  the  president  isn't  afraid  of  anything  ex 
cept  a  voodoo  priestess.  What  is  your  secret?" 
coaxed  the  consul.  "If  you'll  only  sell  it,  I  know 
several  Powers  that  would  give  you  your  price." 

Billy  smiled  modestly. 

"It's  very  simple,"  he  said.  "The  first  time  my 
wages  were  shy  I  went  to  the  palace  and  told  him 
if  he  didn't  come  across  I'd  shut  off  the  juice.  I 
think  he  was  so  stunned  at  anybody  asking  him 
for  real  money  that  while  he  was  still  stunned  he 
opened  his  safe  and  handed  me  two  thousand 
francs.  I  think  he  did  it  more  in  admiration  for 
my  nerve  than  because  he  owed  it.  The  next  time 
pay-day  arrived,  and  the  pay  did  not,  I  didn't  go 

120 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

to  the  palace.  I  just  went  to  bed,  and  the  lights 
went  to  bed,  too.  You  may  remember?" 

The  consul  snorted  indignantly. 

"I  was  holding  three  queens  at  the  time,"  he 
protested.  "Was  it  you  did  that?" 

"It  was,"  said  Billy.  "The  police  came  for  me 
to  start  the  current  going  again,  but  I  said  I  was 
too  ill.  Then  the  president's  own  doctor  came,  old 
Gautier,  and  Gautier  examined  me  with  a  lantern 
and  said  that  in  Hayti  my  disease  frequently 
proved  fatal,  but  he  thought  if  I  turned  on  the 
lights  I  might  recover.  I  told  him  I  was  tired  of 
life,  anyway,  but  that  if  I  could  see  three  thou 
sand  francs  it  might  give  me  an  incentive.  He 
reported  back  to  the  president  and  the  three 
thousand  francs  arrived  almost  instantly,  and  a 
chicken  broth  from  Ham's  own  chef,  with  His 
Excellency's  best  wishes  for  the  recovery  of  the 
invalid.  My  recovery  was  instantaneous,  and  I 
switched  on  the  lights. 

"I  had  just  moved  into  the  Widow  Ducrot's 
hotel  that  week,  and  her  daughter  Claire  wouldn't 
let  me  eat  the  broth.  I  thought  it  was  because, 
as  she's  a  dandy  cook  herself,  she  was  profes 
sionally  jealous.  She  put  the  broth  on  the  top 
shelf  of  the  pantry  and  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
'Gare!'  But  the  next  morning  a  perfectly  good 

121 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

cat,  who  apparently  couldn't  read,  was  lying 
beside  it  dead." 

The  consul  frowned  reprovingly. 

"You  should  not  make  such  reckless  charges," 
he  protested.  "I  would  call  it  only  a  coincidence." 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  please,"  said  Billy, 
"but  it  won't  bring  the  cat  back.  Anyway,  the 
next  time  I  went  to  the  palace  to  collect,  the  presi 
dent  was  ready  for  me.  He  said  he'd  been  taking 
out  information,  and  he  found  if  I  shut  off  the 
lights  again  he  could  hire  another  man  in  the 
States  to  turn  them  on.  I  told  him  he'd  been 
deceived.  I  told  him  the  Wilmot  Electric  Lights 
were  produced  by  a  secret  process,  and  that  only 
a  trained  Wilmot  man  could  work  them.  And  I 
pointed  out  to  him  if  he  dismissed  me  it  wasn't 
likely  the  Wilmot  people  would  loan  him  another 
expert;  not  while  they  were  fighting  him  through 
the  courts  and  the  State  Department.  That  im 
pressed  the  old  man;  so  I  issued  my  ultimatum. 
I  said  if  he  must  have  electric  lights  he  must 
have  me,  too.  Whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  mine 
was  a  life  job." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  gasped  the  new 
consul. 

"Said  it  wasn't  a  life  job,  because  he  was  go 
ing  to  have  me  shot  at  sunset." 

122 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"Then  you  said?" 

"I  said  if  he  did  that  there  wouldn't  be  any 
electric  lights,  and  you  would  bring  a  warship 
and  shoot  Hayti  off  the  map." 

The  new  consul  was  most  indignant. 

"You  had  no  right  to  say  that !"  he  protested. 
"You  did  very  ill.  My  instructions  are  to  avoid 
all  serious  complications." 

"That  was  what  I  was  trying  to  avoid,"  said 
Billy.  "Don't  you  call  being  shot  at  sunset  a 
serious  complication  ?  Or  would  that  be  just  a 
coincidence,  too?  You're  a  hellofa  consul!" 

Since  his  talk  with  the  representative  of  his 
country  four  months  had  passed  and  Billy  still 
held  his  job.  But  each  month  the  number  of 
francs  he  was  able  to  wrest  from  President  Hamil- 
car  dwindled,  and  were  won  only  after  verbal 
conflicts  that  each  month  increased  in  violence. 

To  the  foreign  colony  it  became  evident  that, 
in  the  side  of  President  Ham,  Billy  was  a  thorn, 
sharp,  irritating,  virulent,  and  that  at  any  mo 
ment  Ham  might  pluck  that  thorn  and  Billy 
would  leave  Hayti  in  haste,  and  probably  in  hand 
cuffs.  This  was  evident  to  Billy,  also,  and  the 
prospect  was  most  disquieting.  Not  because  he 
loved  Hayti,  but  because  since  he  went  to  lodge 
at  the  cafe  of  the  Widow  Ducrot,  he  had  learned 

123 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

to  love  her  daughter  Claire,   and   Claire  loved 
him. 

On  the  two  thousand  dollars  due  him  from  Ham 
they  plotted  to  marry.  This  was  not  as  great  an 
adventure  as  it  might  appear.  Billy  knew  that 
from  the  Wilmot  people  he  always  was  sure  of  a 
salary,  and  one  which,  with  such  an  excellent 
housekeeper  as  was  Claire,  would  support  them 
both.  But  with  his  two  thousand  dollars  as  capital 
they  could  afford  to  plunge;  they  could  go  upon  a 
honeymoon;  they  need  not  dread  a  rainy  day,  and, 
what  was  of  greatest  importance,  they  need  not 
delay.  There  was  good  reason  against  delay,  for 
the  hand  of  the  beautiful  Claire  was  already 
promised.  The  Widow  Ducrot  had  promised  it 
to  Paillard,  he  of  the  prosperous  commission  busi 
ness,  the  prominent  embonpoint,  and  four  chil 
dren.  Monsieur  Paillard  possessed  an  establish 
ment  of  his  own,  but  it  was  a  villa  in  the  suburbs; 
and  so,  each  day  at  noon,  for  his  dejeune  he  left 
his  office  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  Cafe 
Ducrot.  For  five  years  this  had  been  his  habit. 
At  first  it  was  the  widow's  cooking  that  attracted 
him,  then  for  a  time  the  widow  herself;  but  when 
from  the  convent  Claire  came  to  assist  her  mother 
in  the  cafe,  and  when  from  a  lanky,  big-eyed, 
long-legged  child  she  grew  into  a  slim,  joyous, 
and  charming  young  woman,  she  alone  was  the 

124 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

attraction,  and  the  Widower  Paillard  decided  to 
make  her  his  wife.  Other  men  had  made  the 
same  decision;  and  when  it  was  announced  that 
between  Claire  and  the  widower  a  marriage  had 
been  "arranged,"  the  clerks  in  the  foreign  com 
mission  houses  and  the  agents  of  the  steamship 
linets  drowned  their  sorrow  in  rum  and  ran  the 
house  flags  to  half-staff.  Paillard  himself  took 
the  proposed  alliance  calmly.  He  was  not  an 
impetuous  suitor.  With  Widow  Ducrot  he  agreed 
that  Claire  was  still  too  young  to  marry,  and  to 
himself  kept  the  fact  that  to  remarry  he  was  in 
no  haste.  In  his  mind  doubts  still  lingered. 
With  a  wife,  young  enough  to  be  one  of  his  chil 
dren,  disorganizing  the  routine  of  his  villa,  would 
it  be  any  more  comfortable  than  he  now  found  it  ? 
Would  his  eldest  daughter  and  her  stepmother 
dwell  together  in  harmony  ?  The  eldest  daughter 
had  assured  him  that  so  far  as  she  was  con 
cerned  they  would  not;  and,  after  all,  in  marry 
ing  a  girl,  no  matter  how  charming,  without  a 
dot,  and  the  daughter  of  a  boarding-house  keeper, 
no  matter  how  respectable,  was  he  not  disposing 
of  himself  too  cheaply  ?  These  doubts  assailed 
Papa  Paillard;  these  speculations  were  in  his  mind. 
And  while  he  speculated  Billy  acted. 

"I  know  that  in  France,"  Billy  assured  Claire, 
125 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"marriages  are  arranged  by  the  parents;  but  in 
my  country  they  are  arranged  in  heaven.  And 
who  are  we  to  disregard  the  edicts  of  heaven  ? 
Ages  and  ages  ago,  before  the  flood,  before  Na 
poleon,  even  before  old  Paillard  with  his  four 
children,  it  was  arranged  in  heaven  that  you  were 
to  marry  me.  So,  what  little  plans  your  good 
mother  may  make  don't  cut  enough  ice  to  cool  a 
green  mint.  Now,  we  can't  try  to  get  married 
here,"  continued  Billy,  "without  your  mother  and 
Paillard  knowing  it.  In  this  town  as  many 
people  have  to  sign  the  marriage  contract  as 
signed  our  Declaration  of  Independence:  all  the 
civil  authorities,  all  the  clergy,  all  the  relatives; 
if  every  man  in  the  telephone  book  isn't  a  witness, 
the  marriage  doesn't  'take.'  So,  we  must  elope  !" 

Having  been  brought  up  in  a  convent,  where  she 
was  taught  to  obey  her  mother  and  forbidden  to 
think  of  marriage,  Claire  was  naturally  delighted 
with  the  idea  of  an  elopement. 

"To  where  will  we  elope  to?"  she  demanded. 
Her  English,  as  she  learned  it  from  Billy,  was 
sometimes  confusing. 

"To  New  York,"  said  Billy.  "On  the  voyage 
there  I  will  put  you  in  charge  of  the  stewardess 
and  the  captain;  and  there  isn't  a  captain  on  the 
Royal  Dutch  or  the  Atlas  that  hasn't  known  you 

126 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

since  you  were  a  baby.  And  as  soon  as  we  dock 
we'll  drive  straight  to  the  city  hall  for  a  license 
and  the  mayor  himself  will  marry  us.  Then  I'll 
get  back  my  old  job  from  the  Wilmot  folks  and 
we'll  live  happy  ever  after!" 

"In  New  York,  also,"  asked  Claire  proudly, 
"are  you  directeur  of  the  electric  lights  ?" 

"On  Broadway  alone,"  Billy  explained  reprov 
ingly,  "there  is  one  sign  that  uses  more  bulbs 
than  there  are  in  the  whole  of  Hayti !" 

"New  York  is  a  large  town !"  exclaimed  Claire. 

"It's  a  large  sign,"  corrected  Billy.  "But,"  he 
pointed  out,  "with  no  money  we'll  never  see  it. 
So  to-morrow  I'm  going  to  make  a  social  call  on 
Grandpa  Ham  and  demand  my  ten  thousand 
francs." 

Claire  grasped  his  arm. 

"Be  careful,"  she  pleaded.  "Remember  the 
chicken  soup.  If  he  offers  you  the  champagne, 
refuse  it!" 

"He  won't  offer  me  the  champagne,"  Billy  as 
sured  her.  "It  won't  be  that  kind  of  a  call." 

Billy  left  the  Cafe  Ducrot  and  made  his  way  to 
the  water-front.  He  was  expecting  some  electrical 
supplies  by  the  Prinz  der  Nederlanden,  and  she 
had  already  come  to  anchor. 

He  was  late,  and  save  for  a  group  of  his  coun- 
127 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

trymen,  who  with  the  customs  officials  were  hav 
ing  troubles  of  their  own,  the  customs  shed  was  all 
but  deserted.  Billy  saw  his  freight  cleared  and 
was  going  away  when  one  of  those  in  trouble 
signalled  for  assistance. 

He  was  a  good-looking  young  man  in  a  Panama 
hat  and  his  manner  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  Billy  knew  who  he  was. 

"They  want  us  to  pay  duty  on  our  trunks,"  he 
explained,  "and  we  want  to  leave  them  in  bond. 
We'll  be  here  only  until  to-night,  when  we're 
going  on  down  the  coast  to  Santo  Domingo. 
But  we  don't  speak  French,  and  we  can't  make 
them  understand  that." 

"You  don't  need  to  speak  any  language  to  give 
a  man  ten  dollars,"  said  Billy. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  the  man  in  the  Panama.  "I 
was  afraid  if  I  tried  that  they  might  arrest  us." 

"They  may  arrest  you  if  you  don't,"  said  Billy. 

Acting  both  as  interpreter  and  disbursing  agent, 
Billy  satisfied  the  demands  of  his  fellow  employees 
of  the  government,  and  his  fellow  countrymen  he 
directed  to  the  Hotel  Ducrot. 

As  some  one  was  sure  to  take  their  money,  he 
thought  it  might  as  well  go  to  his  mother-in-law 
elect.  The  young  man  in  the  Panama  expressed 
the  deepest  gratitude,  and  Billy,  assuring  him  he 

128 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

would  see  him  later,  continued  to  the  power-house, 
still  wondering  where  he  had  seen  him  before. 

At  the  power-house  he  found  seated  at  his  desk 
a  large,  bearded  stranger  whose  derby  hat  and 
ready-to-wear  clothes  showed  that  he  also  had  but 
just  arrived  on  the  Prinz  der  Nederlanden. 

"You  William  Barlow  ?"  demanded  the  stranger. 
"I  understand  you  been  threatening,  unless  you 
get  your  pay  raised,  to  commit  sabotage  on  these 
works?" 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  inquired  Billy. 

The  stranger  produced  an  impressive-looking 
document  covered  with  seals. 

"Contract  with  the  president,"  he  said.  "I've 
taken  over  your  job.  You  better  get  out  quiet," 
he  advised,  "as  they've  given  me  a  squad  of 
nigger  policemen  to  see  that  you  do." 

"Are  you  aware  that  these  works  are  the  prop 
erty  of  the  Wilmot  Company?"  asked  Billy, 
"and  that  if  anything  went  wrong  here  they'd 
hold  you  responsible  ?" 

The  stranger  smiled  complacently. 

"I've  run  plants,"  he  said,  "that  make  these 
lights  look  like  a  stable  lantern  on  a  foggy 
night." 

"In  that  case,"  assented  Billy,  "should  any 
thing  happen,  you'll  know  exactly  what  to  do, 

129 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

and  I  can  leave  you  in  charge  without  feeling  the 
least  anxiety." 

"That's  just  what  you  can  do,"  the  stranger 
agreed  heartily,  "and  you  can't  do  it  too  quick!" 
From  the  desk  he  took  Billy's  favorite  pipe  and 
loaded  it  from  Billy's  tobacco-jar.  But  when 
Billy  had  reached  the  door  he  called  to  him.  "Be 
fore  you  go,  son,"  he  said,  "you  might  give  me 
a  tip  about  this  climate.  I  never  been  in  the 
tropics.  It's  kind  of  unhealthy,  ain't  it?" 

His  expression  was  one  of  concern. 

"If  you  hope  to  keep  alive,"  began  Billy, 
''there  are  two  things  to  avoid " 

The  strangeJr  laughed  knowingly. 

"I  got  you  !"  he  interrupted.  "You're  going  to 
tell  me  to  cut  out  wine  and  women." 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Billy,  "to  cut 
out  hoping  to  collect  any  wages  and  to  avoid 
every  kind  of  soup." 

From  the  power-house  Billy  went  direct  to  the 
palace.  His  anxiety  was  great.  Now  that  Claire 
had  consented  to  leave  Hayti,  the  loss  of  his  posi 
tion  did  not  distress  him.  But  the  possible  loss 
of  his  back  pay  would  be  a  catastrophe.  He  had 
hardly  enough  money  to  take  them  both  to  New 
York,  and  after  they  arrived  none  with  which 
to  keep  them  alive.  Before  the  Wilmot  Company 

130 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

could  find  a  place  for  him  a  month  might  pass, 
and  during  that  month  they  might  starve.  If  he 
went  alone  and  arranged  for  Claire  to  follow,  he 
might  lose  her.  Her  mother  might  marry  her  to 
Paillard;  Claire  might  fall  ill;  without  him  at  her 
elbow  to  keep  her  to  their  purpose  the  voyage  to 
an  unknown  land  might  require  more  courage 
than  she  possessed.  Billy  saw  it  was  imperative 
they  should  depart  together,  and  to  that  end  he 
must  have  his  two  thousand  dollars.  The  money 
was  justly  his.  For  it  he  had  sweated  and  slaved; 
had  given  his  best  effort.  And  so,  when  he  faced 
the  president,  he  was  in  no  conciliatory  mood. 
Neither  was  the  president. 

By  what  right,  he  demanded,  did  this  foreigner 
affront  his  ears  with  demands  for  money;  how 
dared  he  force  his  way  into  his  presence  and  to  his 
face  babble  of  back  pay  ?  It  was  insolent,  in 
credible.  With  indignation  the  president  set  forth 
the  position  of  the  government.  Billy  had  been 
discharged  and,  with  the  appointment  of  his  suc 
cessor,  the  stranger  in  the  derby  hat,  had  ceased 
to  exist.  The  government  could  not  pay  money 
to  some  one  who  did  not  exist.  All  indebtedness 
to  Billy  also  had  ceased  to  exist.  The  account 
had  been  wiped  out.  Billy  had  been  wiped  out. 

The  big  negro,  with  the  chest  and  head  of  a 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

gorilla,  tossed  his  kinky  white  curls  so  violently 
that  the  ringlets  danced.  Billy,  he  declared,  had 
been  a  pest;  a  fly  that  buzzed  and  buzzed  and 
disturbed  his  slumbers.  And  now  when  the  fly 
thought  he  slept  he  had  caught  and  crushed  it 
— so.  President  Ham  clinched  his  great  fist 
convulsively  and,  with  delight  in  his  pantomime, 
opened  his  fingers  one  by  one,  and  held  out  his 
pink  palm,  wrinkled  and  crossed  like  the  hand  of 
a  washerwoman,  as  though  to  show  Billy  that  in 
it  lay  the  fly,  dead. 

"C'est  une  chose  jugee!"  thundered  the  presi 
dent. 

He  reached  for  his  quill  pen. 

But  Billy,  with  Claire  in  his  heart,  with  the  in 
justice  of  it  rankling  in  his  mind,  did  not  agree. 

"It  is  not  an  affair  closed,"  shouted  Billy  in  his 
best  French.  "It  is  an  affair  international,  diplo 
matic;  a  cause  for  war!" 

Believing  he  had  gone  mad,  President  Ham 
gazed  at  him  speechless. 

"From  here  I  go  to  the  cable  office,"  shouted 
Billy.  "I  cable  for  a  warship !  If,  by  to-night,  I 
am  not  paid  my  money,  marines  will  surround  our 
power-house,  and  the  Wilmot  people  will  back  me 
up,  and  my  government  will  back  me  up !" 

It  was,  so  Billy  thought,  even  as  he  launched  it, 
132 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

a  tirade  satisfying  and  magnificent.  But  in  his 
turn  the  president  did  not  agree. 

He  rose.  He  was  a  large  man.  Billy  wondered 
he  had  not  previously  noticed  how  very  large  he 
was. 

"To-night  at  nine  o'clock,"  he  said,  "the  Ger 
man  boat  departs  for  New  York."  As  though 
aiming  a  pistol,  he  raised  his  arm  and  at  Billy 
pointed  a  finger.  "If,  after  she  departs,  you  are 
found  in  Port-au-Prince,  you  will  be  shot !" 

The  audience-chamber  was  hung  with  great 
mirrors  in  frames  of  tarnished  gilt.  In  these 
Billy  saw  himself  reproduced  in  a  wavering  line 
of  Billies  that,  like  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  stretched 
to  the  disappearing  point.  Of  such  images  there 
was  an  army,  but  of  the  real  Billy,  as  he  was 
acutely  conscious,  there  was  but  one.  Among  the 
black  faces  scowling  from  the  doorways  he  felt 
the  odds  were  against  him.  Without  making  a 
reply  he  passed  out  between  the  racks  of  rusty 
muskets  in  the  anteroom,  between  the  two  Catling 
guns  guarding  the  entrance,  and  on  the  palace 
steps,  in  indecision,  halted. 

As  Billy  hesitated  an  officer  followed  him  from 
the  palace  and  beckoned  to  the  guard  that  sat  in 
the  bare  dust  of  the  Champ  de  Mars  playing  cards 
for  cartridges.  Two  abandoned  the  game,  and, 

133 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

having  received  their  orders,  picked  their  muskets 
from  the  dust  and  stood  looking  expectantly  at 
Billy. 

They  were  his  escort,  and  it  was  evident  that 
until  nine  o'clock,  when  he  sailed,  his  movements 
would  be  spied  upon;  his  acts  reported  to  the 
president. 

Such  being  the  situation,  Billy  determined  that 
his  first  act  to  be  reported  should  be  of  a  nature 
to  cause  the  president  active  mental  anguish. 
With  his  guard  at  his  heels  he  went  directly  to  the 
cable  station,  and  to  the  Secretary  of  State  of  the 
United  States  addressed  this  message:  "Presi 
dent  refuses  my  pay;  threatens  shoot;  wireless 
nearest  war-ship  proceed  here  full  speed.  William 
Barlow/' 

Billy  and  the  director  of  telegraphs,  who  out  of 
office  hours  was  a  field-marshal,  and  when  not  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  always  appeared  in  uniform,  went 
over  each  word  of  the  cablegram  together.  When 
Billy  was  assured  that  the  field-marshal  had 
grasped  the  full  significance  of  it  he  took  it  back 
and  added,  "Love  to  Aunt  Maria."  The  extra 
words  cost  four  dollars  and  eighty  cents  gold,  but, 
as  they  suggested  ties  of  blood  between  himself 
and  the  Secretary  of  State,  they  seemed  advis 
able.  In  the  account-book  in  which  he  recorded 

134 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

his  daily  expenditures  Billy  credited  the  item  to 
"  life-insurance." 

The  revised  cablegram  caused  the  field-marshal 
deep  concern.  He  frowned  at  Billy  ferociously. 

"I  will  forward  this  at  once/'  he  promised. 
"But,  I  warn  you,"  he  added,  "I  deliver  also  a 
copy  to  my  president!" 

Billy  sighed  hopefully. 

"You  might  deliver  the  copy  first,"  he  sug 
gested. 

From  the  cable  station  Billy,  still  accompanied 
by  his  faithful  retainers,  returned  to  the  power 
house.  There  he  bade  farewell  to  the  black 
brothers  who  had  been  his  assistants,  and  upon 
one  of  them  pressed  a  sum  of  money. 

As  they  parted,  this  one,  as  though  giving 
the  pass-word  of  a  secret  society,  chanted  sol 
emnly  : 

"A  huit  heures  juste  !  " 

And  Billy  clasped  his  hand  and  nodded. 

At  the  office  of  the  Royal  Dutch  West  India 
Line  Billy  purchased  a  ticket  to  New  York  and 
inquired  were  there  many  passengers. 

"The  ship  is  empty,"  said  the  agent. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Billy,  "for  one  of  my  assist 
ants  may  come  with  me.  He  also  is  being  de 
ported." 

135 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"You  can  have  as  many  cabins  as  you  want," 
said  the  agent.  "We  are  so  sorry  to  see  you  go 
that  we  will  try  to  make  you  feel  you  leave  us  on 
your  private  yacht." 

The  next  two  hours  Billy  spent  in  seeking  out 
those  acquaintances  from  whom  he  could  borrow 
money.  He  found  that  by  asking  for  it  in  homoeo 
pathic  doses  he  was  able  to  shame  the  foreign 
colony  into  loaning  him  all  of  one  hundred  dollars. 
This,  with  what  he  had  in  hand,  would  take  Claire 
and  himself  to  New  York  and  for  a  week  keep 
them  alive.  After  that  he  must  find  work  or  they 
must  starve. 

In  the  garden  of  the  Cafe  Ducrot  Billy  placed 
his  guard  at  a  table  with  bottles  of  beer  between 
them,  and  at  an  adjoining  table  with  Claire  plotted 
the  elopement  for  that  night.  The  garden  was  in 
the  rear  of  the  hotel  and  a  door  in  the  lower  wall 
opened  into  the  rue  Cambon,  that  led  directly  to 
the  water-front. 

Billy  proposed  that  at  eight  o'clock  Claire  should 
be  waiting  in  the  rue  Cambon  outside  this  door. 
They  would  then  make  their  way  to  one  of  the 
less  frequented  wharfs,  where  Claire  would  ar 
range  to  have  a  rowboat  in  readiness,  and  in  it 
they  would  take  refuge  on  the  steamer.  An  hour 
later,  before  the  flight  of  Claire  could  be  discovered, 

136 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

they  would  have  started  on  their  voyage  to  the 
mainland. 

"I  warn  you,"  said  Billy,  "that  after  we  reach 
New  York  I  have  only  enough  to  keep  us  for  a 
week.  It  will  be  a  brief  honeymoon.  After  that 
we  will  probably  starve.  I'm  not  telling  you  this 
to  discourage  you/'  he  explained;  "only  trying  to 
be  honest." 

"I  would  rather  starve  with  you  in  New  York," 
said  Claire,  "than  die  here  without  you." 

At  these  words  Billy  desired  greatly  to  kiss 
Claire,  but  the  guards  were  scowling  at  him.  It 
was  not  until  Claire  had  gone  to  her  room  to  pack 
her  bag  and  the  chance  to  kiss  her  had  passed  that 
Billy  recognized  that  the  scowls  were  intended  to 
convey  the  fact  that  the  beer  bottles  were  empty. 
He  remedied  this  and  remained  alone  at  his  table 
considering  the  outlook.  The  horizon  was,  indeed, 
gloomy,  and  the  only  light  upon  it,  the  loyalty 
and  love  of  the  girl,  only  added  to  his  bitterness. 
Above  all  things  he  desired  to  make  her  content, 
to  protect  her  from  disquiet,  to  convince  her 
that  in  the  sacrifice  she  was  making  she  also  was 
plotting  her  own  happiness.  Had  he  been  able 
to  collect  his  ten  thousand  francs  his  world  would 
have  danced  in  sunshine.  As  it  was,  the  heavens 
were  gray  and  for  the  future  the  skies  promised 

137 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

only  rainy  days.  In  these  depressing  reflections 
Billy  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the 
young  man  in  the  Panama  hat.  Billy  would  have 
avoided  him,  but  the  young  man  and  his  two 
friends  would  not  be  denied.  For  the  service 
Billy  had  rendered  them  they  wished  to  express 
their  gratitude.  It  found  expression  in  the  form 
of  Planter's  punch.  As  they  consumed  this  Billy 
explained  to  the  strangers  why  the  customs  men 
had  detained  them. 

"You  told  them  you  were  leaving  to-night  for 
Santo  Domingo,"  said  Billy;  "but  they  knew  that 
was  impossible,  for  there  is  no  steamer  down  the 
coast  for  two  weeks." 

The  one  whose  features  seemed  familiar  re 
plied  : 

"Still,  we  are  leaving  to-night,"  he  said;  "not 
on  a  steamer,  but  on  a  war-ship." 

"A  war-ship?"  cried  Billy.  His  heart  beat  at 
high  speed.  "Then,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  a 
naval  officer  ?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  and,  as  though 
challenging  Billy  to  make  another  guess,  smiled. 

"Then,"  Billy  complied  eagerly,  "you  are  a 
diplomat !  Are  you  our  new  minister  ?" 

One  of  the  other  young  men  exclaimed  re 
proachfully: 

138 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"You  know  him  perfectly  well!"  he  protested. 
"You've  seen  his  picture  thousands  of  times." 

With  awe  and  pride  he  placed  his  hand  on 
Billy's  arm  and  with  the  other  pointed  at  the  one 
in  the  Panama  hat. 

"It's  Harry  St.  Clair,"  he  announced.  "Harry 
St.  Clair,  the  King  of  the  Movies !" 

"The  King  of  the  Movies,"  repeated  Billy. 
His  disappointment  was  so  keen  as  to  be  em 
barrassing. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you—" 
Then  he  remembered  his  manners.  "Glad  to 
meet  you,"  he  said.  "Seen  you  on  the  screen." 

Again  his  own  troubles  took  precedence.  "Did 
you  say,"  he  demanded,  "one  of  our  war-ships  is 
coming  here  to-day  ?  " 

"Coming  to  take  me  to  Santo  Domingo,"  ex 
plained  Mr.  St.  Clair.  He  spoke  airily,  as  though 
to  him  as  a  means  of  locomotion  battle-ships  were 
as  trolley-cars.  The  Planter's  punch,  which  was 
something  he  had  never  before  encountered, 
encouraged  the  great  young  man  to  unbend. 
He  explained  further  and  fully,  and  Billy,  his 
mind  intent  upon  his  own  affair,  pretended  to 
listen. 

The  United  States  Government,  Mr.  St.  Clair 
explained,  was  assisting  him  and  the  Apollo  Film 

139 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

Company  in  producing  the  eight-reel  film  entitled 
"The  Man  Behind  the  Gun." 

With  it  the  Navy  Department  plotted  to  adver 
tise  the  navy  and  encourage  recruiting.  In  mov 
ing  pictures,  in  the  form  of  a  story,  with  love  in 
terest,  villain,  comic  relief,  and  thrills,  it  would 
show  the  life  of  American  bluejackets  afloat  and 
ashore,  at  home  and  abroad.  They  would  be 
seen  at  Yokohama  playing  baseball  with  Tokio 
University;  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Vatican  re 
ceiving  the  blessing  of  the  Pope;  at  Waikiki  riding 
the  breakers  on  a  scrubbing-board;  in  the  Philip 
pines  eating  cocoanuts  in  the  shade  of  the  shelter 
ing  palm,  and  in  Brooklyn  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  club, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  New  York  sky-scrapers, 
playing  billiards  and  reading  the  sporting  extras. 

As  it  would  be  illustrated  on  the  film  the  life  of 
"The  Man  Behind  the  Gun"  was  one  of  luxurious 
ease.  In  it  coal-passing,  standing  watch  in  a  bliz 
zard,  and  washing  down  decks,  cold  and  unsym 
pathetic,  held  no  part.  But  to  prove  that  the  life 
of  Jack  was  not  all  play  he  would  be  seen  fighting 
for  the  flag.  That  was  where,  as  "Lieutenant 
Hardy,  U.  S.  A.,"  the  King  of  the  Movies  entered. 

"Our  company  arrived  in  Santo  Domingo  last 
week,"  he  explained.  "And  they're  waiting  for  me 
now.  I'm  to  lead  the  attack  on  the  fortress.  We 

140 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

land  in  shore  boats  under  the  guns  of  the  ship  and 
I  take  the  fortress.  First,  we  show  the  ship  clear 
ing  for  action  and  the  men  lowering  the  boats  and 
pulling  for  shore.  Then  we  cut  back  to  show  the 
gun-crews  serving  the  guns.  Then  we  jump  to  the 
landing-party  wading  through  the  breakers.  I 
lead  them.  The  man  who  is  carrying  the  flag  gets 
shot  and  drops  in  the  surf.  I  pick  him  up,  put 
him  on  my  shoulder,  and  carry  him  and  the  flag 
to  the  beach,  where  I " 

Billy  suddenly  awoke.  His  tone  was  one  of 
excited  interest. 

"You  got  a  uniform?"  he  demanded. 

"Three,"  said  St.  Clair  impressively,  "made  to 
order  according  to  regulations  on  file  in  the  Quar 
termaster's  Department.  Each  absolutely  cor 
rect."  Without  too  great  a  show  of  eagerness  he 
inquired:  "Like  to  see  them?" 

Without  too  great  a  show  of  eagerness  Billy 
assured  him  that  he  would. 

"I  got  to  telephone  first,"  he  added,  "but  by  the 
time  you  get  your  trunk  open  I'll  join  you  in  your 


room." 


In  the  cafe,  over  the  telephone,  Billy  addressed 
himself  to  the  field-marshal  in  charge  of  the  cable 
office.  When  Billy  gave  his  name,  the  voice  of 
that  dignitary  became  violently  agitated. 

141 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"Monsieur  Barlow,"  he  demanded,  "do  you 
know  that  the  warship  for  which  you  cabled  your 
Secretary  of  State  makes  herself  to  arrive?" 

At  the  other  end  of  the  'phone,  although  re 
strained  by  the  confines  of  the  booth,  Billy  danced 
joyously.  But  his  voice  was  stern. 

"Naturally,"  he  replied.  "Where  is  she 
now?" 

An  hour  before,  so  the  field-marshal  informed 
him,  the  battleship  Louisiana  had  been  sighted 
and  by  telegraph  reported.  She  was  approaching 
under  forced  draught.  At  any  moment  she 
might  anchor  in  the  outer  harbor.  Of  this  Presi 
dent  Ham  had  been  informed.  He  was  grieved, 
indignant;  he  was  also  at  a  loss  to  understand. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  explained  Billy.  "She  prob 
ably  was  somewhere  in  the  Windward  Passage. 
When  the  Secretary  got  my  message  he  cabled 
Guantanamo,  and  Guantanamo  wirelessed  the 
warship  nearest  Port-au-Prince." 

"President  Poussevain,"  warned  the  field- 
marshal,  "is  greatly  disturbed." 

"Tell  him  not  to  worry,"  said  Billy.  "Tell 
him  when  the  bombardment  begins  I  will  see 
that  the  palace  is  outside  the  zone  of  fire." 

As  Billy  entered  the  room  of  St.  Clair  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  strange  light.  His  manner,  which 

142 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

toward  a  man  of  his  repute  St.  Clair  had  considered 
a  little  too  casual,  was  now  enthusiastic,  almost 
affectionate. 

"My  dear  St.  Clair/'  cried  Billy,  "I've  fixed  it! 
But,  until  I  was  sure,  I  didn't  want  to  raise  your 
hopes!" 

"Hopes  of  what?"  demanded  the  actor. 

"An  audience  with  the  president!"  cried  Billy. 
"I've  just  called  him  up  and  he  says  I'm  to  bring 
you  to  the  palace  at  once.  He's  heard  of  you,  of 
course,  and  he's  very  pleased  to  meet  you.  I  told 
him  about  'The  Man  Behind  the  Gun,'  and  he 
says  you  must  come  in  your  make-up  as  'Lieu 
tenant  Hardy,  U.  S.  A.,'  just  as  he'll  see  you  on 
the  screen." 

Mr.  St.  Clair  stammered  delightedly. 

"In  uniform,"  he  protested;  "won't  that 
be " 

"White,  special  full  dress,"  insisted  Billy. 
"Medals,  side-arms,  full-dress  belt,  and  gloves. 
What  a  press  story !  'The  King  of  the  Movies 
meets  the  President  of  Hayti!'  Of  course,  he's 
only  an  ignorant  negro,  but  on  Broadway  they 
don't  know  that;  and  it  will  sound  fine!" 

St.  Clair  coughed  nervously. 

"Dont  forget,"  he  stammered,  "I  can't  speak 
French,  or  understand  it,  either." 

143 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

The  eyes  of  Billy  became  as  innocent  as  those 
of  a  china  doll. 

"Then  I'll  interpret,"  he  said.  "And,  oh,  yes," 
he  added,  "he's  sending  two  of  the  palace  soldiers 
to  act  as  an  escort — sort  of  guard  of  honor!" 

The  King  of  the  Movies  chuckled  excitedly. 

"Fine!"  he  exclaimed.     "You  are  a  brick!" 

With  trembling  fingers  he  began  to  shed  his 
outer  garments. 

To  hide  his  own  agitation  Billy  walked  to  the 
window  and  turned  his  back.  Night  had  fallen 
and  the  electric  lights,  that  once  had  been  his 
care,  sprang  into  life.  Billy  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  seven  o'clock.  The  window  gave  upon  the 
harbor,  and  a  mile  from  shore  he  saw  the  cargo 
lights  of  the  Prinz  der  Nederlanden,  and  slowly 
approaching,  as  though  feeling  for  her  berth,  a 
great  battleship.  When  Billy  turned  from  the 
window  his  voice  was  apparently  undisturbed. 

"We've  got  to  hurry,"  he  said.  "The  Louisi 
ana  is  standing  in.  She'll  soon  be  sending  a  launch 
for  you.  We've  just  time  to  drive  to  the  palace 
and  back  before  the  launch  gets  here." 

From  his  mind  President  Ham  had  dismissed 
all  thoughts  of  the  warship  that  had  been  sighted 
and  that  now  had  come  to  anchor.  For  the  mo 
ment  he  was  otherwise  concerned.  Fate  could 
not  harm  him;  he  was  about  to  dine. 

144 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

But,  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  his  ad 
ministration,  that  solemn  ceremony  was  rudely 
halted.  An  excited  aide,  trembling  at  his  own 
temerity,  burst  upon  the  president's  solitary 
state. 

In  the  anteroom,  he  announced,  an  officer  from 
the  battleship  Louisiana  demanded  instant  audi 
ence. 

For  a  moment,  transfixed  in  amazement, 
anger,  and  alarm  President  Ham  remained  seated. 
Such  a  visit,  uninvited,  was  against  all  tradition; 
it  was  an  affront,  an  insult.  But  that  it  was 
against  all  precedent  argued  some  serious  neces 
sity.  He  decided  it  would  be  best  to  receive  the 
officer.  Besides,  to  continue  his  dinner  was  now 
out  of  the  question.  Both  appetite  and  diges 
tion  had  fled  from  him. 

In  the  anteroom  Billy  was  whispering  final  in 
structions  to  St.  Clair. 

"Whatever  happens,"  he  begged,  "don't  laugh! 
Don't  even  smile  politely !  He's  very  ignorant, 
you  see,  and  he's  sensitive.  When  he  meets 
foreigners  and  can't  understand  their  language, 
he's  always  afraid  if  they  laugh  that  he's  made  a 
break  and  that  they're  laughing  at  him.  So,  be 
solemn;  look  grave;  look  haughty!" 

"I  got  you,"  assented  St.  Clair.  "I'm  to 
'register'  pride." 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"Exactly!"  said  Billy.  "The  more  pride  you 
register,  the  better  for  us." 

Inwardly  cold  with  alarm,  outwardly  frigidly 
polite,  Billy  presented  "Lieutenant  Hardy."  He 
had  come,  Billy  explained,  in  answer  to  the  call 
for  help  sent  by  himself  to  the  Secretary  of  State, 
which  by  wireless  had  been  communicated  to  the 
Louisiana.  Lieutenant  Hardy  begged  him  to  say 
to  the  president  that  he  was  desolate  at  having 
to  approach  His  Excellency  so  unceremoniously. 
But  His  Excellency,  having  threatened  the  life  of 
an  American  citizen,  the  captain  of  the  Louisiana 
was  forced  to  act  quickly. 

"And  this  officer?"  demanded  President  Ham; 
"what  does  he  want?" 

"He  says,"  Billy  translated  to  St.  Clair,  "that 
he  is  very  glad  to  meet  you,  and  he  wants  to  know 
how  much  you  earn  a  week." 

The  actor  suppressed  his  surprise  and  with 
pardonable  pride  said  that  his  salary  was  six 
hundred  dollars  a  week  and  royalties  on  each 
film. 

Billy  bowed  to  the  president. 

"He  says,"  translated  Billy,  "he  is  here  to  see 
that  I  get  my  ten  thousand  francs,  and  that  if  I 
don't  get  them  in  ten  minutes  he  will  return  to 
the  ship  and  land  marines." 

146 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

To  St.  Clair  it  seemed  as  though  the  president 
received  his  statement  as  to  the  amount  of  his 
salary  with  a  disapproval  that  was  hardly  flatter 
ing.  With  the  heel  of  his  giant  fist  the  president 
beat  upon  the  table,  his  curls  shook,  his  gorilla- 
like  shoulders  heaved. 

In  an  explanatory  aside  Billy  made  this  clear. 

"He  says,"  he  interpreted,  "that  you  get  more 
as  an  actor  than  he  gets  as  president,  and  it  makes 
him  mad." 

"I  can  see  it  does  myself,"  whispered  St.  Clair. 
"And  I  don't  understand  French,  either." 

President  Ham  was  protesting  violently.  It 
was  outrageous,  he  exclaimed;  it  was  inconceiv 
able  that  a  great  republic  should  shake  the  Big 
Stick  over  the  head  of  a  small  republic,  and  for  a 
contemptible  ten  thousand  francs. 

"I  will  not  believe,"  he  growled,  "that  this 
officer  has  authority  to  threaten  me.  You  have 
deceived  him.  If  he  knew  the  truth,  he  would 
apologize.  Tell  him,"  he  roared  suddenly,  "that 
I  demand  that  he  apologize!" 

Billy  felt  like  the  man  who,  after  jauntily 
forcing  the  fighting,  unexpectedly  gets  a  jolt  on 
the  chin  that  drops  him  to  the  canvas. 

While  the  referee  might  have  counted  three 
Billy  remained  upon  the  canvas. 

147 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

Then  again  he  forced  the  fighting.  Eagerly  he 
turned  to  St.  Clair. 

"He  says/'  he  translated,  "you  must  recite 
something/' 

St.  Clair  exclaimed  incredulously: 

"Recite!"  he  gasped. 

Than  his  indignant  protest  nothing  could  have 
been  more  appropriate. 

"Wants  to  see  you  act  out,"  insisted  Billy. 
"Go  on,"  he  begged;  "humor  him.  Do  what  he 
wants  or  he'll  put  us  in  jail!" 

"But  what  shall  I " 

"He  wants  the  curse  of  Rome  from  Richelieu," 
explained  Billy.  "He  knows  it  in  French  and  he 
wants  you  to  recite  it  in  English.  Do  you  know 
it?" 

The  actor  smiled  haughtily. 

"I  wrote  it!"  he  protested.  "Richelieu's  my 
middle  name.  I've  done  it  in  stock." 

"Then  do  it  now!"  commanded  Billy.  "Give 
it  to  him  hot.  I'm  Julie  de  Mortemar.  He's  the 
villain  Barabas.  Begin  where  Barabas  hands  you 
the  cue,  'The  country  is  the  king ! ' 

In  embarrassment  St.  Clair  coughed  tentatively. 

"Whoever  heard  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,"  he 
protested,  "in  a  navy  uniform?" 

"Begin!  "begged  Billy. 
148 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"What'll  I  do  with  my  cap?"  whispered  St. 
Clair. 

In  an  ecstasy  of  alarm  Billy  danced  from  foot 
to  foot. 

"I'll  hold  your  cap,"  he  cried.    "Go  on !" 

St.  Clair  gave  his  cap  of  gold  braid  to  Billy 
and  shifted  his  "full-dress"  sword-belt.  Not 
without  concern  did  President  Ham  observe  these 
preparations.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second,  in 
alarm,  his  eyes  glanced  to  the  exits.  He  found 
that  the  officers  of  his  staff  completely  filled  them. 
Their  presence  gave  him  confidence  and  his  eyes 
returned  to  Lieutenant  Hardy. 

That  gentleman  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Deject 
edly,  his  head  fell  forward  until  his  chin  rested 
upon  his  chest.  Much  to  the  relief  of  the  presi 
dent,  it  appeared  evident  that  Lieutenant  Hardy 
was  about  to  accede  to  his  command  and  apolo 
gize. 

St.  Clair  groaned  heavily. 

"Ay,  is  it  so?"  he  muttered.  His  voice  was 
deep,  resonant,  vibrating  like  a  bell.  His  eyes 
no  longer  suggested  apology.  They  were  strange, 
flashing;  the  eyes  of  a  religious  fanatic;  and  bale- 
fully  they  were  fixed  upon  President  Ham. 

"Then  wakes  the  power,"  the  deep  voice  rum 
bled,  "that  in  the  age  of  iron  burst  forth  to  curb 

149 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

the  great  and  raise  the  low."    He  flung  out  his  left 
arm  and  pointed  it  at  Billy. 

"Mark  where  she  stands !"  he  commanded. 

With  a  sweeping,  protecting  gesture  he  drew 
around  Billy  an  imaginary  circle.  The  panto 
mime  was  only  too  clear.  To  the  aged  negro, 
who  feared  neither  God  nor  man,  but  only  voo 
doo,  there  was  in  the  voice  and  gesture  that  which 
caused  his  blood  to  chill. 

"Around  her  form,"  shrieked  St.  Clair,  "I 
draw  the  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  church !  Set 
but  one  foot  within  that  holy  ground  and  on  thy 
head — "  Like  a  semaphore  the  left  arm  dropped, 
and  the  right  arm,  with  the  forefinger  pointed, 
shot  out  at  President  Ham.  "Yea,  though  it  wore 
a  CROWN— I  launch  the  CURSE  OF  ROME!" 

No  one  moved.  No  one  spoke.  What  terrible 
threat  had  hit  him  President  Ham  could  not  guess. 
He  did  not  ask.  Stiffly,  like  a  man  in  a  trance, 
he  turned  to  the  rusty  iron  safe  behind  his  chair 
and  spun  the  handle.  When  again  he  faced  them 
he  held  a  long  envelope  which  he  presented  to 
Billy. 

"There  are  the  ten  thousand  francs,"  he  said. 
"Ask  him  if  he  is  satisfied,  and  demand  that  he 
go  at  once !" 

Billy  turned  to  St.  Clair. 
150 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

"He  says,"  translated  Billy,  "he's  very  much 
obliged  and  hopes  we  will  come  again.  Now," 
commanded  Billy,  "bow  low  and  go  out  facing 
him.  We  don't  want  him  to  shoot  us  in  the  back  ! " 

Bowing  to  the  president,  the  actor  threw  at 
Billy  a  glance  full  of  indignation. 

"Was  I  as  bad  as  that?"  he  demanded. 

On  schedule  time  Billy  drove  up  to  the  Hotel 
Ducrot  and  relinquished  St.  Clair  to  the  ensign 
in  charge  of  the  launch  from  the  Louisiana.  At 
sight  of  St.  Clair  in  the  regalia  of  a  superior  officer, 
that  young  gentleman  showed  his  surprise. 

"I've  been  giving  a  'command'  performance 
for  the  president,"  explained  the  actor  modestly. 
"I  recited  for  him,  and,  though  I  spoke  in  English, 
I  think  I  made  quite  a  hit." 

"You  certainly,"  Billy  assured  him  gratefully, 
"made  a  terrible  hit  with  me." 

As  the  moving-picture  actors,  escorted  by  the 
ensign,  followed  their  trunks  to  the  launch, 
Billy  looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  of  great 
loneliness.  He  was  aware  that  from  the  palace 
his  carriage  had  been  followed;  that  drawn  in  a 
cordon  around  the  hotel  negro  policemen  covertly 
observed  him.  That  President  Ham  still  hoped 
to  recover  his  lost  prestige  and  his  lost  money 
was  only  too  evident. 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

It  was  just  five  minutes  to  eight. 

Billy  ran  to  his  room,  and  with  his  suitcase  in 
his  hand  slipped  down  the  back  stairs  and  into 
the  garden.  Cautiously  he  made  his  way  to  the 
gate  in  the  wall,  and  in  the  street  outside  found 
Claire  awaiting  him. 

With  a  cry  of  relief  she  clasped  his  arm. 

"You  are  safe!"  she  cried.  "I  was  so  fright 
ened  for  you.  That  President  Ham,  he  is  a  beast, 
an  ogre!"  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "And 
for  myself  also  I  have  been  frightened.  The  po 
lice,  they  are  at  each  corner.  They  watch  the 
hotel.  They  watch  me  I  Why  ?  What  do  they 
want?" 

"They  want  something  of  mine,"  said  Billy. 
"But  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is  until  I'm  sure  it 
is  mine.  Is  the  boat  at  the  wharf?" 

"All  is  arranged,"  Claire  assured  him.  "The 
boatmen  are  our  friends;  they  will  take  us  safely 
to  the  steamer." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Billy  lifted  her  valise  and 
his  own,  but  he  did  not  move  forward. 

Anxiously  Claire  pulled  at  his  sleeve. 

"Come!"  she  begged.  "For  what  it  is  that 
you  wait  ?" 

It  was  just  eight  o'clock. 

Billy  was  looking  up  at  the  single  electric-light 
152 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

bulb  that  lit  the  narrow  street,  and  following  the 
direction  of  his  eyes,  Claire  saw  the  light  grow 
dim,  saw  the  tiny  wires  grow  red,  and  disappear. 
From  over  all  the  city  came  shouts,  and  cries 
of  consternation,  oaths,  and  laughter,  and  then 
darkness. 

"I  was  waiting  for  this!  "  cried  Billy. 

With  the  delight  of  a  mischievous  child  Claire 
laughed  aloud. 

"You — you  did  it!"  she  accused. 

"I  did!"  said  Billy.  "And  now — we  must  run 
like  the  devil!" 

The  Prinz  der  Nederlanden  was  drawing  slowly 
out  of  the  harbor.  Shoulder  to  shoulder  Claire 
and  Billy  leaned  upon  the  rail.  On  the  wharfs 
of  Port-au-Prince  they  saw  lanterns  tossing  and 
candles  twinkling;  saw  the  Louisiana,  blazing 
like  a  Christmas-tree,  steaming  majestically  south; 
in  each  other's  eyes  saw  that  all  was  well. 

From  his  pocket  Billy  drew  a  long  envelope. 

"I  can  now  with  certainty,"  said  Billy,  "state 
that  this  is  mine — ours." 

He  opened  the  envelope,  and  while  Claire  gazed 
upon  many  mille  franc  notes  Billy  told  how  he 
had  retrieved  them. 

"But  what  danger!"  cried  Claire.  "In  time 
Ham  would  have  paid.  Your  president  at  Wash- 

153 


Billy  and  the  Big  Stick 

ington  would  have  made  him  pay.  Why  take  such 
risks  ?  You  had  but  to  wait !" 

Billy  smiled  contentedly. 

"Dear  one!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  policy  of 
watchful  waiting  is  safer,  but  the  Big  Stick  acts 
quicker  and  gets  results!" 


154 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

A  RULE  of  the  Boy  Scouts  is  every  day  to  do 
some  one  a  good  turn.  Not  because  the 
copy-books  tell  you  it  deserves  another,  but  in 
spite  of  that  pleasing  possibility.  If  you  are  a 
true  scout,  until  you  have  performed  your  act 
of  kindness  your  day  is  dark.  You  are  as  un 
happy  as  is  the  grown-up  who  has  begun  his  day 
without  shaving  or  reading  the  New  York  Sun. 
But  as  soon  as  you  have  proved  yourself  you 
may,  with  a  clear  conscience,  look  the  world  in 
the  face  and  untie  the  knot  in  your  kerchief. 

Jimmie  Reeder  untied  the  accusing  knot  in 
his  scarf  at  just  ten  minutes  past  eight  on  a  hot 
August  morning  after  he  had  given  one  dime  to 
his  sister  Sadie.  With  that  she  could  either 
witness  the  first-run  films  at  the  Palace,  or  by 
dividing  her  fortune  patronize  two  of  the  nickel 
shows  on  Lenox  Avenue.  The  choice  Jimmie  left 
to  her.  He  was  setting  out  for  the  annual  encamp 
ment  of  the  Boy  Scouts  at  Hunter's  Island,  and 
in  the  excitement  of  that  adventure  even  the 
movies  ceased  to  thrill.  But  Sadie  also  could  be 


The  Boy  Scout 

unselfish.  With  a  heroism  of  a  camp-fire  maiden 
she  made  a  gesture  which  might  have  been  in 
terpreted  to  mean  she  was  returning  the  money. 
"I  can't,  Jimmie!"  she  gasped.  "I  can't 
take  it  off  you.  You  saved  it,  and  you  ought  to 
get  the  fun  of  it." 

"I  haven't  saved  it  yet,"  said  Jimmie.  "I'm 
going  to  cut  it  out  of  the  railroad  fare.  I'm  going 
to  get  off  at  City  Island  instead  of  at  Pelham 
Manor  and  walk  the  difference.  That's  ten  cents 
cheaper." 

Sadie  exclaimed  with  admiration: 
"An'  you  carryin'  that  heavy  grip !" 
"Aw,   that's   nothin',"   said   the   man   of  the 
family. 

"Good-by,  mother.    So  long,  Sadie." 
To  ward  off  further  expressions  of  gratitude 
he  hurriedly  advised  Sadie  to  take  in  "The  Curse 
of   Cain"    rather    than    "The    Mohawk's    Last 
Stand,"  and  fled  down  the  front  steps. 

He  wore  his  khaki  uniform.  On  his  shoulders 
was  his  knapsack,  from  his  hands  swung  his  suit 
case,  and  between  his  heavy  stockings  and  his 
"shorts"  his  kneecaps,  unkissed  by  the  sun,  as 
yet  unscathed  by  blackberry  vines,  showed  as 
white  and  fragile  as  the  wrists  of  a  girl.  As  he 
moved  toward  the  "L"  station  at  the  corner, 

158 


The  Boy  Scout 

Sadie  and  his  mother  waved  to  him;  in  the  street, 
boys  too  small  to  be  Scouts  hailed  him  enviously; 
even  the  policeman  glancing  over  the  news 
papers  on  the  news-stand  nodded  approval. 

"You  a  Scout,  Jimmie?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  retorted  Jimmie,  for  was  not  he  also  in 
uniform?  "I'm  Santa  Claus  out  filling  Christ 
mas  stockings." 

The  patrolman  also  possessed  a  ready  wit. 

"Then  get  yourself  a  pair,"  he  advised.  "If 
a  dog  was  to  see  your  legs " 

Jimmie  escaped  the  insult  by  fleeing  up  the 
steps  of  the  Elevated. 

An  hour  later,  with  his  valise  in  one  hand 
and  staff  in  the  other,  he  was  tramping  up  the 
Boston  Post  Road  and  breathing  heavily.  The 
day  was  cruelly  hot.  Before  his  eyes,  over  an 
interminable  stretch  of  asphalt,  the  heat  waves 
danced  and  flickered.  Already  the  knapsack  on 
his  shoulders  pressed  upon  him  like  an  Old  Man 
of  the  Sea;  the  linen  in  the  valise  had  turned  to 
pig  iron,  his  pipe-stem  legs  were  wabbling,  his 
eyes  smarted  with  salt  sweat,  and  the  fingers 
supporting  the  valise  belonged  to  some  other  boy, 
and  were  giving  that  boy  much  pain.  But  as 
the  motor-cars  flashed  past  with  raucous  warn- 

159 


The  Boy  Scout 

ings,  or,  that  those  who  rode  might  better  see  the 
boy  with  bare  knees,  passed  at  "half  speed," 
Jimmie  stiffened  his  shoulders  and  stepped  jaunt 
ily  forward.  Even  when  the  joy-riders  mocked 
with  "Oh,  you  Scout!"  he  smiled  at  them.  He 
was  willing  to  admit  to  those  who  rode  that  the 
laugh  was  on  the  one  who  walked.  And  he  re 
gretted — oh,  so  bitterly — having  left  the  train. 
He  was  indignant  that  for  his  "one  good  turn  a 
day"  he  had  not  selected  one  less  strenuous — 
that,  for  instance,  he  had  not  assisted  a  fright 
ened  old  lady  through  the  traffic.  To  refuse  the 
dime  she  might  have  offered,  as  all  true  scouts 
refuse  all  tips,  would  have  been  easier  than  to 
earn  it  by  walking  five  miles,  with  the  sun  at 
ninety-nine  degrees,  and  carrying  excess  baggage. 
Twenty  times  James  shifted  the  valise  to  -  the 
other  hand,  twenty  times  he  let  it  drop  and  sat 
upon  it. 

And  then,  as  again  he  took  up  his  burden, 
the  good  Samaritan  drew  near.  He  drew  near  in 
a  low  gray  racing-car  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles 
an  hour,  and  within  a  hundred  feet  of  Jimmie 
suddenly  stopped  and  backed  toward  him.  The 
good  Samaritan  was  a  young  man  with  white 
hair.  He  wore  a  suit  of  blue,  a  golf  cap;  the  hands 
that  held  the  wheel  were  disguised  in  large  yel- 

160 


The  Boy  Scout 

low  gloves.  He  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  and 
surveyed  the  dripping  figure  in  the  road  with 
tired  and  uncurious  eyes. 

"You  a  Boy  Scout  ?"  he  asked. 

With  alacrity  for  the  twenty-first  time  Jimmie 
dropped  the  valise,  forced  his  cramped  fingers 
into  straight  lines,  and  saluted. 

The  young  man  in  the  car  nodded  toward  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"Get  in,"  he  commanded. 

When  James  sat  panting  happily  at  his  elbow 
the  old  young  man,  to  Jimmie's  disappointment, 
did  not  continue  to  shatter  the  speed  limit.  In 
stead,  he  seemed  inclined  for  conversation,  and 
the  car,  growling  indignantly,  crawled. 

"I  never  saw  a  Boy  Scout  before,"  announced 
the  old  young  man.  "Tell  me  about  it.  First, 
tell  me  what  you  do  when  you're  not  scouting." 

Jimmie  explained  volubly.  When  not  in  uni 
form  he  was  an  office  boy,  and  from  peddlers  and 
beggars  guarded  the  gates  of  Carroll  and  Has 
tings,  stock-brokers.  He  spoke  the  names  of  his 
employers  with  awe.  It  was  a  firm  distinguished, 
conservative,  and  long  established.  The  white- 
haired  young  man  seemed  to  nod  in  assent. 

"Do  you  know  them?"  demanded  Jimmie 
suspiciously.  "Are  you  a  customer  of  ours?" 

161 


The  Boy  Scout 

"I  know  them,"  said  the  young  man.  "They 
are  customers  of  mine." 

Jimmie  wondered  in  what  way  Carroll  and 
Hastings  were  customers  of  the  white-haired  young 
man.  Judging  him  by  his  outer  garments, 
Jimmie  guessed  he  was  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailor;  he 
might  be  even  a  haberdasher.  Jimmie  continued. 
He  lived,  he  explained,  with  his  mother  at  One 
Hundred  and  Forty-sixth  Street;  Sadie,  his  sister, 
attended  the  public  school;  he  helped  support 
them  both,  and  he  now  was  about  to  enjoy  a 
well-earned  vacation  camping  out  on  Hunter's 
Island,  where  he  would  cook  his  own  meals,  and, 
if  the  mosquitoes  permitted,  sleep  in  a  tent. 

"And  you  like  that?"  demanded  the  young 
man.  "You  call  that  fun?" 

"Sure!"  protested  Jimmie.  "Don't  you  go 
camping  out  ?" 

"I  go  camping  out,"  said  the  good  Samaritan, 
"whenever  I  leave  New  York." 

Jimmie  had  not  for  three  years  lived  in  Wall 
Street  not  to  understand  that  the  young  man 
spoke  in  metaphor. 

"You  don't  look,"  objected  the  young  man 
critically,  "as  though  you  were  built  for  the 
strenuous  life." 

Jimmie  glanced  guiltily  at  his  white  knees. 
162 


The  Boy  Scout 

"You  ought  ter  see  me  two  weeks  from  now," 
he  protested.  "I  get  all  sunburnt  and  hard — hard 
as  anything!" 

The  young  man  was  incredulous. 

"You  were  near  getting  sunstruck  when  I 
picked  you  up,"  he  laughed.  "If  you're  going  to 
Hunter's  Island,  why  didn't  you  go  to  Pelham 
Manor?" 

"That's  right ! "  assented  Jimmie  eagerly.  "  But 
I  wanted  to  save  the  ten  cents  so's  to  send  Sadie 
to  the  movies.  So  I  walked." 

The  young  man  looked  his  embarrassment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  murmured. 

But  Jimmie  did  not  hear  him.  From  the  back 
of  the  car  he  was  dragging  excitedly  at  the  hated 
suitcase. 

"Stop!"  he  commanded.  "I  got  ter  get  out. 
I  got  ter  walk.'9 

The  young  man  showed  his  surprise. 

"Walk  !"  he  exclaimed.    "What  is  it— a  bet  ?" 

Jimmie  dropped  the  valise  and  followed  it 
into  the  roadway.  It  took  some  time  to  explain 
to  the  young  man.  First,  he  had  to  be  told  about 
the  Scout  law  and  the  one  good  turn  a  day,  and 
that  it  must  involve  some  personal  sacrifice. 
And,  as  Jimmie  pointed  out,  changing  from  a 
slow  suburban  train  to  a  racing-car  could  not  be 

163 


The  Boy  Scout 

listed  as  a  sacrifice.  He  had  not  earned  the  money, 
Jimmie  argued;  he  had  only  avoided  paying  it 
to  the  railroad.  If  he  did  not  walk  he  would  be 
obtaining  the  gratitude  of  Sadie  by  a  falsehood. 
Therefore,  he  must  walk. 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  the  young  man. 
"You've  got  it  wrong.  What  good  will  it  do 
your  sister  to  have  you  sunstruck  ?  I  think  you 
are  sunstruck.  You're  crazy  with  the  heat.  You 
get  in  here,  and  we'll  talk  it  over  as  we  go  along." 

Hastily  Jimmie  backed  away.  "I'd  rather 
walk,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  shifted  his  legs  irritably. 

"Then  how'll  this  suit  you  ?"  he  called.  "We'll 
declare  that  first  'one  good  turn'  a  failure  and 
start  afresh.  Do  me  a  good  turn." 

Jimmie  halted  in  his  tracks  and  looked  back 
suspiciously. 

"I'm  going  to  Hunter's  Island  Inn,"  called 
the  young  man,  "and  I've  lost  my  way.  You 
get  in  here  and  guide  me.  That'll  be  doing  me  a 
good  turn." 

On  either  side  of  the  road,  blotting  out  the 
landscape,  giant  hands  picked  out  in  electric- 
light  bulbs  pointed  the  way  to  Hunter's  Island 
Inn.  Jimmie  grinned  and  nodded  toward  them. 

"Much  obliged,"  he  called.  "I  got  ter  walk." 
164 


The  Boy  Scout 

Turning  his  back  upon  temptation,  he  waddled 
forward  into  the  flickering  heat  waves. 

The  young  man  did  not  attempt  to  pursue. 
At  the  side  of  the  road,  under  the  shade  of  a 
giant  elm,  he  had  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  and 
with  his  arms  crossed  upon  the  wheel  sat  motion 
less,  following  with  frowning  eyes  the  retreating 
figure  of  Jimmie.  But  the  narrow-chested  and 
knock-kneed  boy  staggering  over  the  sun-baked 
asphalt  no  longer  concerned  him.  It  was  not 
Jimmie,  but  the  code  preached  by  Jimmie,  and 
not  only  preached  but  before  his  eyes  put  into 
practise,  that  interested  him.  The  young  man 
with  white  hair  had  been  running  away  from 
temptation.  At  forty  miles  an  hour  he  had  been 
running  away  from  the  temptation  to  do  a  fel 
low  mortal  "a  good  turn."  That  morning,  to 
the  appeal  of  a  drowning  Caesar  to  "Help  me, 
Cassius,  or  I  sink/'  he  had  answered:  "Sink!" 
That  answer  he  had  no  wish  to  reconsider.  That 
he  might  not  reconsider  he  had  sought  to  es 
cape.  It  was  his  experience  that  a  sixty- 
horse-power  racing-machine  is  a  jealous  mistress. 
For  retrospective,  sentimental,  or  philanthropic 
thoughts  she  grants  no  leave  of  absence.  But  he 
had  not  escaped.  Jimmie  had  halted  him,  tripped 


The  Boy  Scout 

him  by  the  heels,  and  set  him  again  to  thinking. 
Within  the  half-hour  that  followed  those  who 
rolled  past  saw  at  the  side  of  the  road  a  car  with 
her  engine  running,  and  leaning  upon  the  wheel, 
as  unconscious  of  his  surroundings  as  though  he 
sat  at  his  own  fireplace,  a  young  man  who  frowned 
and  stared  at  nothing.  The  half-hour  passed 
and  the  young  man  swung  his  car  back  toward 
the  city.  But  at  the  first  road-house  that  showed 
a  blue-and-white  telephone  sign  he  left  it,  and 
into  the  iron  box  at  the  end  of  the  bar  dropped 
a  nickel.  He  wished  to  communicate  with  Mr. 
Carroll,  of  Carroll  and  Hastings;  and  when  he 
learned  Mr.  Carroll  had  just  issued  orders  that 
he  must  not  be  disturbed,  the  young  man  gave 
his  name. 

The  effect  upon  the  barkeeper  was  instan 
taneous.  With  the  aggrieved  air  of  one  who  feels 
he  is  the  victim  of  a  jest  he  laughed  scorn 
fully. 

"What  are  you  putting  over?"  he  demanded. 

The  young  man  smiled  reassuringly.  He  had 
begun  to  speak  and,  though  apparently  engaged 
with  the  beer-glass  he  was  polishing,  the  bar 
keeper  listened. 

Down  in  Wall  Street  the  senior  member  of 
Carroll  and  Hastings  also  listened.  He  was  alone 

166 


The  Boy  Scout 

in  the  most  private  of  all  his  private  offices,  and 
when  interrupted  had  been  engaged  in  what,  of 
all  undertakings,  is  the  most  momentous.  On 
the  desk  before  him  lay  letters  to  his  lawyer,  to 
the  coroner,  to  his  wife;  and  hidden  by  a  mass  of 
papers,  but  within  reach  of  his  hand,  was  an  auto 
matic  pistol.  The  promise  it  offered  of  swift  re 
lease  had  made  the  writing  of  the  letters  simple, 
had  given  him  a  feeling  of  complete  detachment, 
had  released  him,  at  least  in  thought,  from  all 
responsibilities.  And  when  at  his  elbow  the  tele 
phone  coughed  discreetly,  it  was  as  though  some 
one  had  called  him  from  a  world  from  which  al 
ready  he  had  made  his  exit. 

Mechanically,  through  mere  habit,  he  lifted 
the  receiver. 

The  voice  over  the  telephone  came  in  brisk, 
staccato  sentences. 

"That  letter  I  sent  this  morning  ?  Forget  it. 
Tear  it  up.  I've  been  thinking  and  I'm  going 
to  take  a  chance.  I've  decided  to  back  you  boys, 
and  I  know  you'll  make  good.  I'm  speaking 
from  a  road-house  in  the  Bronx;  going  straight 
from  here  to  the  bank.  So  you  can  begin  to  draw 
against  us  within  an  hour.  And — hello  ! — will 
three  millions  see  you  through  ?" 

From  Wall  Street  there  came  no  answer,  but 
167 


The  Boy  Scout 

from  the  hands  of  the  barkeeper  a  glass  crashed 
to  the  floor. 

The  young  man  regarded  the  barkeeper  with 
puzzled  eyes. 

"He  doesn't  answer,"  he  exclaimed.  "He 
must  have  hung  up." 

"He  must  have  fainted!"  said  the  barkeeper. 

The  white-haired  one  pushed  a  bill  across  the 
counter.  "To  pay  for  breakage,"  he  said,  and 
disappeared  down  Pelham  Parkway. 

Throughout  the  day,  with  the  bill,  for  evidence, 
pasted  against  the  mirror,  the  barkeeper  told  and 
retold  the  wondrous  tale. 

"He  stood  just  where  you're  standing  now," 
he  related,  "blowing  in  million-dollar  bills  like 
you'd  blow  suds  off  a  beer.  If  I'd  knowed  it  was 
him,  I'd  have  hit  him  once  and  hid  him  in  the 
cellar  for  the  reward.  Who'd  I  think  he  was?  I 
thought  he  was  a  wire-tapper,  working  a  con 
game!" 

Mr.  Carroll  had  not  "hung  up,"  but  when  in 
the  Bronx  the  beer-glass  crashed,  in  Wall  Street 
the  receiver  had  slipped  from  the  hand  of  the  man 
who  held  it,  and  the  man  himself  had  fallen  for 
ward.  His  desk  hit  him  in  the  face  and  woke 
him — woke  him  to  the  wonderful  fact  that  he 
still  lived;  that  at  forty  he  had  been  born  again; 

168 


The  Boy  Scout. 

that  before  him  stretched  many  more  years  in 
which,  as  the  young  man  with  the  white  hair  had 
pointed  out,  he  still  could  make  good. 

The  afternoon  was  far  advanced  when  the 
staff  of  Carroll  and  Hastings  were  allowed  to 
depart,  and,  even  late  as  was  the  hour,  two  of 
them  were  asked  to  remain.  Into  the  most 
private  of  the  private  offices  Carroll  invited 
Gaskell,  the  head  clerk;  in  the  main  office  Has 
tings  had  asked  young  Thorne,  the  bond  clerk,  to 
be  seated. 

Until  the  senior  partner  has  finished  with 
Gaskell  young  Thorne  must  remain  seated. 

"Gaskell,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  "if  we  had  lis 
tened  to  you,  if  we'd  run  this  place  as  it  was  when 
father  was  alive,  this  never  would  have  happened. 
It  hasnt  happened,  but  we've  had  our  lesson. 
And  after  this  we're  going  slow  and  going  straight. 
And  we  don't  need  you  to  tell  us  how  to  do  that. 
We  want  you  to  go  away — on  a  month's  vacation. 
When  I  thought  we  were  going  under  I  planned 
to  send  the  children  on  a  sea  voyage  with  the 
governess — so  they  wouldn't  see  the  newspapers. 
But  now  that  I  can  look  them  in  the  eye  again,  I 
need  them,  I  can't  let  them  go.  So,  if  you'd  like 
to  take  your  wife  on  an  ocean  trip  to  Nova 
Scotia  and  Quebec,  here  are  the  cabins  I  reserved 

169 


The  Boy  Scout 

for  the  kids.  They  call  it  the  royal  suite — 
whatever  that  is — and  the  trip  lasts  a  month. 
The  boat  sails  to-morrow  morning.  Don't  sleep 
too  late  or  you  may  miss  her." 

The  head  clerk  was  secreting  the  tickets  in 
the  inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  His  fingers 
trembled,  and  when  he  laughed  his  voice  trem 
bled. 

"Miss  the  boat!"  the  head  clerk  exclaimed. 
"If  she  gets  away  from  Millie  and  me  she's  got 
to  start  now.  We'll  go  on  board  to-night!" 

A  half-hour  later  Millie  was  on  her  knees  pack 
ing  a  trunk,  and  her  husband  was  telephoning  to 
the  drug-store  for  a  sponge-bag  and  a  cure  for 
seasickness. 

Owing  to  the  joy  in  her  heart  and  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  on  her  knees,  Millie  was  alternately 
weeping  into  the  trunk-tray  and  offering  up  in 
coherent  prayers  of  thanksgiving.  Suddenly  she 
sank  back  upon  the  floor. 

"John!"  she  cried,  "doesn't  it  seem  sinful  to 
sail  away  in  a  'royal  suite'  and  leave  this  beauti 
ful  flat  empty?" 

Over  the  telephone  John  was  having  trouble 
with  the  drug  clerk. 

"No!"  he  explained,  "I'm  not  seasick  now. 
The  medicine  I  want  is  to  be  taken  later.  I 

170 


The  Boy  Scout 

know  I'm  speaking  from  the  Pavonia;  but  the 
Pavonia  isn't  a  ship;  it's  an  apartment-house." 

He  turned  to  Millie.  "We  can't  be  in  two 
places  at  the  same  time,"  he  suggested. 

"But,  think,"  insisted  Millie,  "of  all  the  poor 
people  stifling  to-night  in  this  heat,  trying  to 
sleep  on  the  roofs  and  fire-escapes;  and  our  flat 
so  cool  and  big  and  pretty — and  no  one  in  it." 

John  nodded  his  head  proudly. 

"I  know  it's  big,"  he  said,  "but  it  isn't  big 
enough  to  hold  all  the  people  who  are  sleeping 
to-night  on  the  roofs  and  in  the  parks." 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  brother — and  Grace," 
said  Millie.  "They've  been  married  only  two 
weeks  now,  and  they're  in  a  stuffy  hall  bedroom 
and  eating  with  all  the  other  boarders.  Think 
what  our  flat  would  mean  to  them;  to  be  by 
themselves,  with  eight  rooms  and  their  own 
kitchen  and  bath,  and  our  new  refrigerator  and 
the  gramophone !  It  would  be  heaven !  It 
would  be  a  real  honeymoon!" 

Abandoning  the  drug  clerk,  John  lifted  Millie 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  for,  next  to  his  wife, 
nearest  his  heart  was  the  younger  brother. 

The  younger  brother  and  Grace  were  sitting 
on  the  stoop  of  the  boarding-house.  On  the  upper 

171 


The"  Boy  Scout 

steps,  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  were  the  other  board 
ers;  so  the  bride  and  bridegroom  spoke  in  whispers. 
The  air  of  the  cross  street  was  stale  and  stag 
nant;  from  it  rose  exhalations  of  rotting  fruit, 
the  gases  of  an  open  subway,  the  smoke  of  pass 
ing  taxicabs.  But  between  the  street  and  the 
hall  bedroom,  with  its  odors  of  a  gas-stove  and 
a  kitchen,  the  choice  was  difficult. 

"We've  got  to  cool  off  somehow,"  the  young 
husband  was  saying,  "or  you  won't  sleep.  Shall 
we  treat  ourselves  to  ice-cream  sodas  or  a  trip  on 
the  Weehawken  ferry-boat?" 

"The  ferry-boat!"  begged  the  girl,  "where  we 
can  get  away  from  all  these  people." 

A  taxicab  with  a  trunk  in  front  whirled  into 
the  street,  kicked  itself  to  a  stop,  and  the  head 
clerk  and  Millie  spilled  out  upon  the  pavement. 
They  talked  so  fast,  and  the  younger  brother 
and  Grace  talked  so  fast,  that  the  boarders,  al 
though  they  listened  intently,  could  make  noth 
ing  of  it. 

They  distinguished  only  the  concluding  sen 
tences  : 

"Why  don't  you  drive  down  to  the  wharf  with 
us,"  they  heard  the  elder  brother  ask,  "and  see 
our  royal  suite?" 

But  the  younger  brother  laughed  him  to  scorn. 
172 


The  Boy  Scout 

"What's  your  royal  suite,"  he  mocked,  "to 
our  royal  palace?" 

An  hour  later,  had  the  boarders  listened  out 
side  the  flat  of  the  head  clerk,  they  would  have 
heard  issuing  from  his  bathroom  the  cooling 
murmur  of  running  water  and  from  his  gramo 
phone  the  jubilant  notes  of  "Alexander's  Rag 
time  Band." 

When  in  his  private  office  Carroll  was  making 
a  present  of  the  royal  suite  to  the  head  clerk,  in 
the  main  office  Hastings,  the  junior  partner, 
was  addressing  "Champ"  Thorne,  the  bond 
clerk.  He  addressed  him  familiarly  and  affec 
tionately  as  "Champ."  This  was  due  partly  to 
the  fact  that  twenty-six  years  before  Thorne  had 
been  christened  Champneys  and  to  the  coin 
cidence  that  he  had  captained  the  football  eleven 
of  one  of  the  Big  Three  to  the  championship. 

"Champ,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  "last  month, 
when  you  asked  me  to  raise  your  salary,  the 
reason  I  didn't  do  it  was  not  because  you  didn't 
deserve  it,  but  because  I  believed  if  we  gave  you 
a  raise  you'd  immediately  get  married." 

The  shoulders  of  the  ex-football  captain  rose 
aggressively;  he  snorted  with  indignation. 

"And  why  should  I  not  get  married?"  he  de 
manded.  "You're  a  fine  one  to  talk!  You're 

173 


The  Boy  Scout 

the  most  offensively  happy  married  man  I  ever 


met." 


"Perhaps  I  know  I  am  happy  better  than  you 
do,"  reproved  the  junior  partner;  "but  I  know 
also  that  it  takes  money  to  support  a  wife." 

"You  raise  me  to  a  hundred  a  week,"  urged 
Champ,  "and  I'll  make  it  support  a  wife  whether 
it  supports  me  or  not." 

"A  month  ago,"  continued  Hastings,  "we  could 
have  promised  you  a  hundred,  but  we  didn't 
know  how  long  we  could  pay  it.  We  didn't  want 
you  to  rush  off  and  marry  some  fine  girl " 

"Some  fine  girl!"  muttered  Mr.  Thorne. 
"The  finest  girl!" 

"The  finer  the  girl,"  Hastings  pointed  out, 
"the  harder  it  would  have  been  for  you  if  we  had 
failed  and  you  had  lost  your  job." 

The  eyes  of  the  young  man  opened  with  sym 
pathy  and  concern. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  he  murmured. 

Hastings  sighed  happily. 

"It  was"  he  said,  "but  this  morning  the 
Young  Man  of  Wall  Street  did  us  a  good  turn — 
saved  us — saved  our  creditors,  saved  our  homes, 
saved  our  honor.  We're  going  to  start  fresh  and 
pay  our  debts,  and  we  agreed  the  first  debt  we 
paid  would  be  the  small  one  we  owe  you.  You've 

174 


The  Boy  Scout 

brought  us  more  than  we've  given,  and  if  you'll 
stay  with  us  we're  going  to  'see'  your  fifty  and 
raise  it  a  hundred.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

Young  Mr.  Thorne  leaped  to  his  feet.  What 
he  said  was:  "Where'n  hell's  my  hat  ?" 

But  by  the  time  he  had  found  the  hat  and  the 
door  he  mended  his  manners. 

"I  say,  'Thank  you  a  thousand  times,'  "  he 
shouted  over  his  shoulder.  "Excuse  me,  but 
I've  got  to  go.  I've  got  to  break  the  news  to " 

He  did  not  explain  to  whom  he  was  going  to 
break  the  news;  but  Hastings  must  have  guessed, 
for  again  he  sighed  happily  and  then,  a  little 
hysterically  laughed  aloud.  Several  months  had 
passed  since  he  had  laughed  aloud. 

In  his  anxiety  to  break  the  news  Champ 
Thorne  almost  broke  his  neck.  In  his  excite 
ment  he  could  not  remember  whether  the  red 
flash  meant  the  elevator  was  going  down  or  com 
ing  up,  and  sooner  than  wait  to  find  out  he 
started  to  race  down  eighteen  flights  of  stairs 
when  fortunately  the  elevator-door  swung  open. 

"You  get  five  dollars,"  he  announced  to  the 
elevator  man,  "if  you  drop  to  the  street  without 
a  stop.  Beat  the  speed  limit !  Act  like  the  build 
ing  is  on  fire  and  you're  trying  to  save  me  before 
the  roof  falls." 

175 


The  Boy  Scout 

Senator  Barnes  and  his  entire  family,  which 
was  his  daughter  Barbara,  were  at  the  Ritz- 
Carlton.  They  were  in  town  in  August  because 
there  was  a  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the  Brazil 
and  Cuyaba  Rubber  Company,  of  which  com 
pany  Senator  Barnes  was  president.  It  was  a 
secret  meeting.  Those  directors  who  were  keep 
ing  cool  at  the  edge  of  the  ocean  had  been  sum 
moned  by  telegraph;  those  who  were  steaming 
across  the  ocean,  by  wireless. 

Up  from  the  equator  had  drifted  the  threat  of 
a  scandal,  sickening,  grim,  terrible.  As  yet  it 
burned  beneath  the  surface,  giving  out  only  an 
odor,  but  an  odor  as  rank  as  burning  rubber  it 
self.  At  any  moment  it  might  break  into  flame. 
For  the  directors,  was  it  the  better  wisdom  to 
let  the  scandal  smoulder,  and  take  a  chance,  or 
to  be  the  first  to  give  the  alarm,  the  first  to  lead 
the  way  to  the  horror  and  stamp  it  out  ? 

It  was  to  decide  this  that,  in  the  heat  of 
August,  the  directors  and  the  president  had  for 
gathered. 

Champ  Thorne  knew  nothing  of  this;  he  knew 
only  that  by  a  miracle  Barbara  Barnes  was  in 
town;  that  at  last  he  was  in  a  position  to  ask  her 
to  marry  him;  that  she  would  certainly  say  she 
would.  That  was  all  he  cared  to  know. 

176 


The  Boy  Scout 

A  year  before  he  had  issued  his  declaration  of 
independence.  Before  he  could  marry,  he  told 
her,  he  must  be  able  to  support  a  wife  on  what 
he  earned,  without  her  having  to  accept  money 
from  her  father,  and  until  he  received  "a  mini 
mum  wage"  of  five  thousand  dollars  they  must 
wait. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  father's  money  ?" 
Barbara  had  demanded. 

Thorne  had  evaded  the  direct  question. 

"There  is  too  much  of  it,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  object  to  the  way  he  makes  it?"  in 
sisted  Barbara.  "Because  rubber  is  most  useful. 
You  put  it  in  golf  balls  and  auto  tires  and  ga- 
loches.  There  is  nothing  so  perfectly  respectable 
as  galoches.  And  what  is  there  ' tainted'  about  a 
raincoat  ? " 

Thorne  shook  his  head  unhappily. 

"It's  not  the  finished  product  to  which  I  re 
fer,"  he  stammered;  "it's  the  way  they  get  the 
raw  material." 

"They  get  it  out  of  trees,"  said  Barbara. 
Then  she  exclaimed  with  enlightenment — "Oh!" 
she  cried,  "you  are  thinking  of  the  Congo.  There 
it  is  terrible !  That  is  slavery.  But  there  are  no 
slaves  on  the  Amazon.  The  natives  are  free  and 
the  work  is  easy.  They  just  tap  the  trees  the 

177 


The  Boy  Scout 

way  the  farmers  gather  sugar  in  Vermont.    Father 
has  told  me  about  it  often." 

Thorne  had  made  no  comment.  He  could 
abuse  a  friend,  if  the  friend  were  among  those 
present,  but  denouncing  any  one  he  disliked  as 
heartily  as  he  disliked  Senator  Barnes  was  a 
public  service  he  preferred  to  leave  to  others. 
And  he  knew  besides  that  if  the  father  she  loved 
and  the  man  she  loved  distrusted  each  other, 
Barbara  would  not  rest  until  she  learned  the 
reason  why. 

One  day,  in  a  newspaper,  Barbara  read  of  the 
Puju  Mayo  atrocities,  of  the  Indian  slaves  in 
the  jungles  and  backwaters  of  the  Amazon,  who 
are  offered  up  as  sacrifices  to  "red  rubber."  She 
carried  the  paper  to  her  father.  What  it  said,  her 
father  told  her,  was  untrue,  and  if  it  were  true 
it  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  it. 

Senator  Barnes  loved  the  good  things  of  life, 
but  the  thing  he  loved  most  was  his  daughter; 
the  thing  he  valued  the  highest  was  her  good 
opinion.  So  when  for  the  first  time  she  looked 
at  him  in  doubt,  he  assured  her  he  at  once  would 
order  an  investigation. 

"But,  of  course,"  he  added,  "it  will  be  many 
months  before  our  agents  can  report.  On  the 
Amazon  news  travels  very  slowly." 

178 


The  Boy  Scout 

In  the  eyes  of  his  daughter  the  doubt  still 
lingered. 

"I  am  afraid/'  she  said,  "that  that  is  true." 

That  was  six  months  before  the  directors  of 
the  Brazil  and  Cuyaba  Rubber  Company  were 
summoned  to  meet  their  president  at  his  rooms 
in  the  Ritz-Carlton.  They  were  due  to  arrive 
in  half  an  hour,  and  while  Senator  Barnes  awaited 
their  coming  Barbara  came  to  him.  In  her  eyes 
was  a  light  that  helped  to  tell  the  great  news. 
It  gave  him  a  sharp,  jealous  pang.  He  wanted  at 
once  to  play  a  part  in  her  happiness,  to  make  her 
grateful  to  him,  not  alone  to  this  stranger  who 
was  taking  her  away.  So  fearful  was  he  that 
she  would  shut  him  out  of  her  life  that  had  she 
asked  for  half  his  kingdom  he  would  have  parted 
with  it. 

"And  besides  giving  my  consent,"  said  the 
rubber  king,  "for  which  no  one  seems  to  have 
asked,  what  can  I  give  my  little  girl  to  make  her 
remember  her  old  father  ?  Some  diamonds  to 
put  on  her  head,  or  pearls  to  hang  around  her 
neck,  or  does  she  want  a  vacant  lot  on  Fifth 
Avenue  ?" 

The  lovely  hands  of  Barbara  rested  upon  his 
shoulders;  her  lovely  face  was  raised  to  his;  her 
lovely  eyes  were  appealing,  and  a  little  frightened. 

179 


The  Boy  Scout 

"What  would  one  of  those  things  cost  ?"  asked 
Barbara. 

The  question  was  eminently  practical.  It  came 
within  the  scope  of  the  senator's  understanding. 
After  all,  he  was  not  to  be  cast  into  outer  dark 
ness.  His  smile  was  complacent.  He  answered 
airily: 

"Anything  you  like,"  he  said;  "a  million  dol 
lars?" 

The  fingers  closed  upon  his  shoulders.  The 
eyes,  still  frightened,  still  searched  his  in  appeal. 

"Then,  for  my  wedding-present,"  said  the  girl, 
"I  want  you  to  take  that  million  dollars  and  send 
an  expedition  to  the  Amazon.  And  I  will  choose 
the  men.  Men  unafraid;  men  not  afraid  of 
fever  or  sudden  death;  not  afraid  to  tell  the  truth 
— even  to  you.  And  all  the  world  will  know. 
And  they — I  mean  you — will  set  those  people 
free!" 

Senator  Barnes  received  the  directors  with  an 
embarrassment  which  he  concealed  under  a 
manner  of  just  indignation. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,"  he  told  them.  "Ex 
isting  conditions  cannot  continue.  And  to  that 
end,  at  my  own  expense,  I  am  sending  an  expedi 
tion  across  South  America.  It  will  investigate, 
punish,  and  establish  reforms.  I  suggest,  on 

1 80 


The  Boy  Scout 

account  of  this  damned  heat,  we   do  now  ad 
journ." 

That  night,  over  on  Long  Island,  Carroll  told 
his  wife  all,  or  nearly  all.  He  did  not  tell  her 
about  the  automatic  pistol.  And  together  on 
tiptoe  they  crept  to  the  nursery  and  looked  down 
at  their  sleeping  children.  When  she  rose  from 
her  knees  the  mother  said:  "But  how  can  I  thank 
him?" 

By  "him"  she  meant  the  Young  Man  of  Wall 
Street. 

"You  never  can  thank  him,"  said  Carroll; 
"that's  the  worst  of  it." 

But  after  a  long  silence  the  mother  said:  "I 
will  send  him  a  photograph  of  the  children.  Do 
you  think  he  will  understand  ?" 

Down  at  Seabright,  Hastings  and  his  wife 
walked  in  the  sunken  garden.  The  moon  was  so 
bright  that  the  roses  still  held  their  color. 

"I  would  like  to  thank  him,"  said  the  young 
wife.  She  meant  the  Young  Man  of  Wall  Street. 
"But  for  him  we  would  have  lost  this." 

Her  eyes  caressed  the  garden,  the  fruit-trees, 
the  house  with  wide,  hospitable  verandas.  "To 
morrow  I  will  send  him  some  of  these  roses,"  said 
the  young  wife.  "Will  he  understand  that  they 
mean  our  home  ?" 

181 


The  Boy  Scout 

At  a  scandalously  late  hour,  in  a  scandalous 
spirit  of  independence,  Champ  Thorne  and  Bar 
bara  were  driving  around  Central  Park  in  a  taxi- 
cab. 

"How  strangely  the  Lord  moves,  his  wonders 
to  perform,"  misquoted  Barbara.  "Had  not  the 
Young  Man  of  Wall  Street  saved  Mr.  Hastings, 
Mr.  Hastings  could  not  have  raised  your  salary; 
you  would  not  have  asked  me  to  marry  you, 
and  had  you  not  asked  me  to  marry  you,  father 
would  not  have  given  me  a  wedding-present, 
and " 

"And,"  said  Champ,  taking  up  the  tale, 
"thousands  of  slaves  would  still  be  buried  in  the 
jungles,  hidden  away  from  their  wives  and  chil 
dren  and  the  light  of  the  sun  and  their  fellow 
men.  They  still  would  be  dying  of  fever,  starva 
tion,  tortures." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his  and  held  her 
finger-tips  against  his  lips. 

"And  they  will  never  know,"  he  whispered, 
"when  their  freedom  comes,  that  they  owe  it  all 
to  you." 

On  Hunter's  Island,  Jimmie  Reeder  and  his 
bunkie,  Sam  Sturges,  each  on  his  canvas  cot, 
tossed  and  twisted.  The  heat,  the  moonlight, 

182 


The  Boy  Scout 

and  the  mosquitoes  would  not  let  them  even 
think  of  sleep. 

"That  was  bully,"  said  Jimmie,  "what  you 
did  to-day  about  saving  that  dog.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  he'd  ha'  drownded." 

"He  would  not  /"  said  Sammy  with  punctilious 
regard  for  the  truth;  "it  wasn't  deep  enough." 

"Well,  the  scout-master  ought  to  know," 
argued  Jimmie;  "he  said  it  was  the  best  'one 
good  turn'  of  the  day!" 

Modestly  Sam  shifted  the  lime-light  so  that  it 
fell  upon  his  bunkie. 

"I'll  bet,"  he  declared  loyally,  "your  'one  good 
turn'  was  a  better  one!" 

Jimmie  yawned,  and  then  laughed  scornfully. 

"Me  !"  he  scoffed.  "I  didn't  do  nothing.  I  sent 
my  sister  to  the  movies." 


183 


THE  FRAME-UP 


THE  FRAME-UP 

WHEN  the  voice  over  the  telephone  prom 
ised  to  name  the  man  who  killed  Hermann 
Banf,  District  Attorney  Wharton  was  up-town 
lunching  at  Delmonico's.  This  was  contrary  to 
his  custom  and  a  concession  to  Hamilton  Cutler, 
his  distinguished  brother-in-law.  That  gentle 
man  was  interested  in  a  State  constabulary  bill 
and  had  asked  State  Senator  Bissell  to  father  it. 
He  had  suggested  to  the  senator  that,  in  the  legal 
points  involved  in  the  bill,  his  brother-in-law 
would  undoubtedly  be  charmed  to  advise  him. 
So  that  morning,  to  talk  it  over,  Bissell  had  come 
from  Albany  and,  as  he  was  forced  to  return  the 
same  afternoon,  had  asked  Wharton  to  lunch 
with  him  up-town  near  the  station. 

That  in  public  life  there  breathed  a  man  with 
soul  so  dead  who,  were  he  offered  a  chance  to  serve 
Hamilton  Cutler,  would  not  jump  at  the  chance 
was  outside  the  experience  of  the  county  chair 
man.  And  in  so  judging  his  fellow  men,  with  the 
exception  of  one  man,  the  senator  was  right. 
The  one  man  was  Hamilton  Cutler's  brother-in- 
law. 


The  Frame-Up 

In  the  national  affairs  of  his  party  Hamilton 
Cutler  was  one  of  the  four  leaders.  In  two 
cabinets  he  had  held  office.  At  a  foreign  court  as 
an  ambassador  his  dinners,  of  which  the  diplo 
matic  corps  still  spoke  with  emotion,  had  upheld 
the  dignity  of  ninety  million  Americans.  He  was 
rich.  The  history  of  his  family  was  the  history 
of  the  State.  When  the  Albany  boats  drew 
abreast  of  the  old  Cutler  mansion  on  the  east 
bank  of  the  Hudson  the  passengers  pointed  at  it 
with  deference.  Even  when  the  search-lights 
pointed  at  it,  it  was  with  deference.  And  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  as  the  "Seeing  New  York"  car 
passed  his  town  house  it  slowed  respectfully  to 
half  speed.  When,  apparently  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  she  was  good  and  beautiful,  he 
had  married  the  sister  of  a  then  unknown  up- 
State  lawyer,  every  one  felt  Hamilton  Cutler  had 
made  his  first  mistake.  But,  like  everything  else 
into  which  he  entered,  for  him  matrimony  also 
was  a  success.  The  prettiest  girl  in  Utica  showed 
herself  worthy  of  her  distinguished  husband. 
She  had  given  him  children  as  beautiful  as  her 
self;  as  what  Washington  calls  "a  cabinet  lady" 
she  had  kept  her  name  out  of  the  newspapers; 
as  Madame  PAmbassatrice  she  had  put  arch 
duchesses  at  their  ease;  and  after  ten  years  she 

1 88 


The  Frame-Up 

was  an  adoring  wife,  a  devoted  mother,  and  a 
proud  woman.  Her  pride  was  in  believing  that 
for  every  joy  she  knew  she  was  indebted  entirely 
to  her  husband.  To  owe  everything  to  him,  to 
feel  that  through  him  the  blessings  flowed,  was 
her  ideal  of  happiness. 

In  this  ideal  her  brother  did  not  share.  Her  de 
light  in  a  sense  of  obligation  left  him  quite  cold. 
No  one  better  than  himself  knew  that  his  rapid- 
fire  rise  in  public  favor  was  due  to  his  own  exer 
tions,  to  the  fact  that  he  had  worked  very  hard, 
had  been  independent,  had  kept  his  hands  clean, 
and  had  worn  no  man's  collar.  Other  people 
believed  he  owed  his  advancement  to  his  brother- 
in-law.  He  knew  they  believed  that,  and  it  hurt 
him.  When,  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Amen 
Corner,  they  burlesqued  him  as  singing  to  "Ham" 
Cutler,  "You  made  me  what  I  am  to-day,  I  hope 
you're  sat-isfied,"  he  found  that  to  laugh  with 
the  others  was  something  of  an  effort.  His  was 
a  difficult  position.  He  was  a  party  man;  he  had 
always  worked  inside  the  organization.  The  fact 
that  whenever  he  ran  for  an  elective  office  the 
reformers  indorsed  him  and  the  best  elements 
in  the  opposition  parties  voted  for  him  did  not 
shake  his  loyalty  to  his  own  people.  And  to 
Hamilton  Cutler,  as  one  of  his  party  leaders,  as 

189 


The  Frame-Up 

one  of  the  bosses  of  the  "invisible  government," 
he  was  willing  to  defer.  But  while  he  could  give 
allegiance  to  his  party  leaders,  and  from  them 
was  willing  to  receive  the  rewards  of  office,  from 
a  rich  brother-in-law  he  was  not  at  all  willing  to 
accept  anything.  Still  less  was  he  willing  that 
of  the  credit  he  deserved  for  years  of  hard  work 
for  the  party,  of  self-denial,  and  of  efficient  public 
service  the  rich  brother-in-law  should  rob  him. 

His  pride  was  to  be  known  as  a  self-made  man, 
as  the  servant  only  of  the  voters.  And  now  that 
he  had  fought  his  way  to  one  of  the  goals  of  his 
ambition,  now  that  he  was  district  attorney  of 
New  York  City,  to  have  it  said  that  the  office 
was  the  gift  of  his  brother-in-law  was  bitter. 
But  he  believed  the  injustice  would  soon  end.  In 
a  month  he  was  coming  up  for  re-election,  and 
night  and  day  was  conducting  a  campaign  that 
he  hoped  would  result  in  a  personal  victory  so 
complete  as  to  banish  the  shadow  of  his  brother- 
in-law.  Were  he  re-elected  by  the  majority  on 
which  he  counted,  he  would  have  the  party  lead 
ers  on  their  knees.  Hamilton  Cutler  would  be 
forced  to  come  to  him.  He  would  be  in  line  for 
promotion.  He  knew  the  leaders  did  not  want 
to  promote  him,  that  they  considered  him  too 
inclined  to  kick  over  the  traces;  but  were  he  now 
re-elected,  at  the  next  election,  either  for  mayor 

190 


The  Frame-Up 

or  governor,  he  would  be  his  party's  obvious  and 
legitimate  candidate. 

The  re-election  was  not  to  be  an  easy  victory. 
Outside  his  own  party,  to  prevent  his  succeeding 
himself  as  district  attorney,  Tammany  Hall  was 
using  every  weapon  in  her  armory.  The  com 
missioner  of  police  was  a  Tammany  man,  and  in 
the  public  prints  Wharton  had  repeatedly  declared 
that  Banf,  his  star  witness  against  the  police,  had 
been  killed  by  the  police,  and  that  they  had  pre 
vented  the  discovery  of  his  murderer.  For  this 
the  wigwam  wanted  his  scalp,  and  to  get  it  had 
raked  his  public  and  private  life,  had  used  threats 
and  bribes,  and  with  women  had  tried  to  trap 
him  into  a  scandal.  But  "Big  Tim"  Meehan,  the 
lieutenant  the  Hall  had  detailed  to  destroy  Whar 
ton,  had  reported  back  that  for  their  purpose  his 
record  was  useless,  that  bribes  and  threats  only 
flattered  him,  and  that  the  traps  set  for  him  he 
had  smilingly  side-stepped.  This  was  the  situa 
tion  a  month  before  election  day  when,  to  oblige 
his  brother-in-law,  Wharton  was  up-town  at 
Delmonico's  lunching  with  Senator  Bissell. 

Down-town  at  the  office,  Rumson,  the  assistant 
district  attorney,  was  on  his  way  to  lunch  when 
the  telephone-girl  halted  him.  Her  voice  was 
lowered  and  betrayed  almost  human  interest. 

From  the  corner  of  her  mouth  she  whispered: 
191 


The  Frame-Up 

"This  man  has  a  note  for  Mr.  Wharton — says  if  he 
don't  get  it  quick  it'll  be  too  late — says  it  will  tell 
him  who  killed  'Heimie'  Banf !" 

The  young  man  and  the  girl  looked  at  each 
other  and  smiled.  Their  experience  had  not 
tended  to  make  them  credulous.  Had  he  lived, 
Hermann  Banf  would  have  been,  for  Wharton,  the 
star  witness  against  a  ring  of  corrupt  police 
officials.  In  consequence  his  murder  was  more 
than  the  taking  off  of  a  shady  and  disreputable 
citizen.  It  was  a  blow  struck  at  the  high  office 
of  the  district  attorney,  at  the  grand  jury,  and 
the  law.  But,  so  far,  whoever  struck  the  blow 
had  escaped  punishment,  and  though  for  a  month, 
ceaselessly,  by  night  and  day  "the  office"  and 
the  police  had  sought  him,  he  was  still  at  large, 
still  "unknown."  There  had  been  hundreds  of 
clews.  They  had  been  furnished  by  the  detec 
tives  of  the  city  and  county  and  of  the  private 
agencies,  by  amateurs,  by  newspapers,  by  mem 
bers  of  the  underworld  with  a  score  to  pay  off  or 
to  gain  favor.  But  no  clew  had  led  anywhere. 
When,  in  hoarse  whispers,  the  last  one  had  been 
confided  to  him  by  his  detectives,  Wharton  had 
protested  indignantly. 

"Stop  bringing  me  clews!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
want  the  man.  I  can't  electrocute  a  clew!" 

192 


The  Frame-Up 

So  when,  after  all  other  efforts,  over  the  tele 
phone  a  strange  voice  offered  to  deliver  the  mur 
derer,  Rumson  was  sceptical.  He  motioned  the 
girl  to  switch  to  the  desk  telephone. 

"Assistant  District  Attorney  Rumson  speak 
ing,"  he  said.  "What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

Before  the  answer  came,  as  though  the  speaker 
were  choosing  his  words,  there  was  a  pause.  It 
lasted  so  long  that  Rumson  exclaimed  sharply: 

"Hello,"  he  called.  "Do  you  want  to  speak 
to  me,  or  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

"I've  gotta  letter  for  the  district  attorney," 
said  the  voice.  "I'm  to  give  it  to  nobody  but  him. 
It's  about  Banf.  He  must  get  it  quick,  or  it'll 
be  too  late." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Rumson.  "Where 
are  you  speaking  from  ?" 

The  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  ignored 
the  questions. 

"Where'll  Wharton  be  for  the  next  twenty 
minutes  ?" 

"If  I  tell  you,"  parried  Rumson,  "will  you 
bring  the  letter  at  once  ?" 

The  voice  exclaimed  indignantly: 

"Bring  nothing!  I'll  send  it  by  district  mes 
senger.  You're  wasting  time  trying  to  reach  me. 
It's  the  letter  you  want.  It  tells  " — the  voice 

193 


The  Frame-Up 

broke  with  an  oath  and  instantly  began  again: 
"I  can't  talk  over  a  phone.  I  tell  you,  it's  life 
or  death.  If  you  lose  out,  it's  your  own  fault. 
Where  can  I  find  Wharton  ?" 

"At  Delmonico's,"  answered  Rumson.  "He'll 
be  there  until  two  o'clock." 

"Delmonico's!     That's  Forty-fort  Street?" 

"Right,"  said  Rumson.  "Tell  the  messen- 
ger " 

He  heard  the  receiver  slam  upon  the  hook. 

With  the  light  of  the  hunter  in  his  eyes,  he 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"They  can  laugh,"  he  cried,  "but  I  believe 
we've  hooked  something.  I'm  going  after  it." 

In  the  waiting-room  he  found  the  detectives. 

"Hewitt,"  he  ordered,  "take  the  subway  and 
whip  up  to  Delmonico's.  Talk  to  the  taxi-starter 
till  a  messenger-boy  brings  a  letter  for  the  D.  A. 
Let  the  boy  deliver  the  note,  and  then  trail  him 
till  he  reports  to  the  man  he  got  it  from.  Bring 
the  man  here.  If  it's  a  district  messenger  and  he 
doesn't  report,  but  goes  straight  back  to  the  office, 
find  out  who  gave  him  the  note;  get  his  descrip 
tion.  Then  meet  me  at  Delmonico's." 

Rumson  called  up  that  restaurant  and  had 
Wharton  come  to  the  phone.  He  asked  his  chief 
to  wait  until  a  letter  he  believed  to  be  of  great 

194 


The  Frame-Up 

importance  was  delivered  to  him.  He  explained, 
but,  of  necessity,  somewhat  sketchily. 

"It  sounds  to  me,"  commented  his  chief,  "like  a 
plot  of  yours  to  get  a  lunch  up-town." 

"Invitation!"  cried  Rumson.  "I'll  be  with 
you  in  ten  minutes." 

After  Rumson  had  joined  Wharton  and  Bissell 
the  note  arrived.  It  was  brought  to  the  restau 
rant  by  a  messenger-boy,  who  said  that  in  an 
swer  to  a  call  from  a  saloon  on  Sixth  Avenue  he 
had  received  it  from  a  young  man  in  ready-to- 
wear  clothes  and  a  green  hat.  When  Hewitt,  the 
detective,  asked  what  the  young  man  looked  like, 
the  boy  said  he  looked  like  a  young  man  in  ready- 
to-wear  clothes  and  a  green  hat.  But  when  the 
note  was  read  the  identity  of  the  man  who  de 
livered  it  ceased  to  be  of  importance.  The  paper 
on  which  it  was  written  was  without  stamped 
address  or  monogram,  and  carried  with  it  the 
mixed  odors  of  the  drug-store  at  which  it  had 
been  purchased.  The  handwriting  was  that  of  a 
woman,  and  what  she  had  written  was:  "If  the 
district  attorney  will  come  at  once,  and  alone, 
to  Kessler's  Cafe,  on  the  Boston  Post  Road, 
near  the  city  line,  he  will  be  told  who  killed  Her 
mann  Banf.  If  he  don't  come  in  an  hour,  it  will 
be  too  late.  If  he  brings  anybody  with  him,  he 

195 


The  Frame-Up 

won't  be  told  anything.  Leave  your  car  in  the 
road  and  walk  up  the  drive.  Ida  Earle." 

Hewitt,  who  had  sent  away  the  messenger-boy 
and  had  been  called  in  to  give  expert  advice,  was 
enthusiastic. 

"Mr.  District  Attorney,"  he  cried,  "that's  no 
crank  letter.  This  Earle  woman  is  wise.  You 
got  to  take  her  as  a  serious  proposition.  She 
wouldn't  make  that  play  if  she  couldn't  get  away 
with  it." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Wharton. 

To  the  police,  the  detective  assured  them,  Ida 
Earle  had  been  known  for  years.  When  she  was 
young  she  had  been  under  the  protection  of  a  man 
high  in  the  ranks  of  Tammany,  and,  in  conse 
quence,  with  her  different  ventures  the  police  had 
never  interfered.  She  now  was  proprietress  of 
the  road-house  in  the  note  described  as  Kessler's 
Cafe.  It  was  a  place  for  joy-riders.  There  was  a 
cabaret,  a  hall  for  public  dancing,  and  rooms  for 
very  private  suppers. 

In  so  far  as  it  welcomed  only  those  who  could 
spend  money  it  was  exclusive,  but  in  all  other  re 
spects  its  reputation  was  of  the  worst.  In  situ 
ation  it  was  lonely,  and  from  other  houses  sepa 
rated  by  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  dying  trees  and 
vacant  lots. 


The  Frame-Up 

The  Boston  Post  Road  upon  which  it  faced  was 
the  old  post  road,  but  lately,  through  this  back 
yard  and  dumping-ground  of  the  city,  had  been 
relaid.  It  was  patrolled  only  and  infrequently  by 
bicycle  policemen. 

"But  this,"  continued  the  detective  eagerly,  "is 
where  we  win  out.  The  road-house  is  an  old  farm 
house  built  over,  with  the  barns  changed  into 
garages.  They  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  wood.  It's 
about  as  big  as  a  city  block.  If  we  come  in 
through  the  woods  from  the  rear,  the  garages  will 
hide  us.  Nobody  in  the  house  can  see  us,  but  we 
won't  be  a  hundred  yards  away.  You've  only  to 
blow  a  police  whistle  and  we'll  be  with  you/' 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  go  ?"  said  Wharton. 

Rumson  exclaimed  incredulously: 

"You  got  to  go!" 

"It  looks  to  me,"  objected  Bissell,  "like  a  plot 
to  get  you  there  alone  and  rap  you  on  the  head." 

"Not  with  that  note  inviting  him  there,"  pro 
tested  Hewitt,  "and  signed  by  Earle  herself." 

"You  don't  know  she  signed  it?"  objected  the 
senator. 

"I  know  her"  returned  the  detective.  "I  know 
she's  no  fool.  It's  her  place,  and  she  wouldn't 
let  them  pull  off  any  rough  stuff  there — not 
against  the  D.  A.,  anyway." 

197 


The  Frame-Up 

The  D.  A.  was  rereading  the  note. 

"Might  this  be  it?"  he  asked.  "Suppose  it's 
a  trick  to  mix  me  up  in  a  scandal  ?  You  say  the 
place  is  disreputable.  Suppose  they're  planning 
to  compromise  me  just  before  election.  They've 
tried  it  already  several  times." 

"You've  still  got  the  note,"  persisted  Hewitt. 
"It  proves  why  you  went  there.  And  the  senator, 
too.  He  can  testify.  And  we  won't  be  a  hun 
dred  yards  away.  And,"  he  added  grudgingly, 
"you  have  Nolan." 

Nolan  was  the  spoiled  child  of  "the  office."  He 
was  the  district  attorney's  pet.  Although  still 
young,  he  had  scored  as  a  detective  and  as  a 
driver  of  racing-cars.  As  Wharton's  chauffeur  he 
now  doubled  the  parts. 

"What  Nolan  testified  wouldn't  be  any  help," 
said  Wharton.  "They  would  say  it  was  just  a 
story  he  invented  to  save  me." 

"Then  square  yourself  this  way,"  urged  Rum- 
son.  "Send  a  note  now  by  hand  to  Ham  Cutler 
and  one  to  your  sister.  Tell  them  you're  going  to 
Ida  Earle's — and  why — tell  them  you're  afraid 
it's  a  frame-up,  and  for  them  to  keep  your  notes 
as  evidence.  And  enclose  the  one  from  her." 

Wharton  nodded  in  approval,  and,  while  he 
wrote,  Rumson  and  the  detective  planned  how, 

198 


The  Frame-Up 

without  those  inside  the  road-house  being  aware 
of  their  presence,  they  might  be  near  it. 

Kessler's  Cafe  lay  in  the  Seventy-ninth  Police 
Precinct.  In  taxi-cabs  they  arranged  to  start  at 
once  and  proceed  down  White  Plains  Avenue, 
which  parallels  the  Boston  Road,  until  they  were 
on  a  line  with  Kessler's,  but  from  it  hidden  by 
the  woods  and  the  garages.  A  walk  of  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  across  lots  and  under  cover  of  the  trees 
would  bring  them  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  house. 

Wharton  was  to  give  them  a  start  of  half  an 
hour.  That  he  might  know  they  were  on  watch, 
they  agreed,  after  they  dismissed  the  taxi-cabs, 
to  send  one  of  them  into  the  Boston  Post  Road 
past  the  road-house.  When  it  was  directly  in 
front  of  the  cafe,  the  chauffeur  would  throw  away 
into  the  road  an  empty  cigarette-case. 

From  the  cigar-stand  they  selected  a  cigarette 
box  of  a  startling  yellow.  At  half  a  mile  it  was 
conspicuous. 

"When  you  see  this  in  the  road,"  explained 
Rumson,  "you'll  know  we're  on  the  job.  And 
after  you're  inside,  if  you  need  us,  you've  only 
to  go  to  a  rear  window  and  wave." 

"If  they  mean  to  do  him  up,"  growled  Bissell, 
"he  won't  get  to  a  rear  window." 

199 


The  Frame-Up 

"He  can  always  tell  them  we're  outside,"  said 
Rumson — "and  they  are  extremely  likely  to  be 
lieve  him.  Do  you  want  a  gun?" 

"No,"  said  the  D.  A. 

"Better  have  mine,"  urged  Hewitt. 

"I  have  my  own,"  explained  the  D.  A. 

Rumson  and  Hewitt  set  off  in  taxi-cabs  and,  a 
half-hour  later,  Wharton  followed.  As  he  sank 
back  against  the  cushions  of  the  big  touring-car 
he  felt  a  pleasing  thrill  of  excitement,  and  as  he 
passed  the  traffic  police,  and  they  saluted  me 
chanically,  he  smiled.  Had  they  guessed  his  er 
rand  their  interest  in  his  progress  would  have  been 
less  perfunctory.  In  half  an  hour  he  might  know 
that  the  police  killed  Banf;  in  half  an  hour  he 
himself  might  walk  into  a  trap  they  had,  in 
turn,  staged  for  him.  As  the  car  ran  swiftly 
through  the  clean  October  air,  and  the  wind  and 
sun  alternately  chilled  and  warmed  his  blood, 
Wharton  considered  these  possibilities. 

He  could  not  believe  the  woman  Earle  would 
lend  herself  to  any  plot  to  do  him  bodily  harm. 
She  was  a  responsible  person.  In  her  own  world 
she  was  as  important  a  figure  as  was  the  district 
attorney  in  his.  Her  allies  were  the  men  "higher 
up"  in  Tammany  and  the  police  of  the  upper 
ranks  of  the  uniformed  force.  And  of  the  higher 

200 


The  Frame-Up 

office  of  the  district  attorney  she  possessed  an 
intimate  and  respectful  knowledge.  It  was  not 
to  be  considered  that  against  the  prosecuting  at 
torney  such  a  woman  would  wage  war.  So  the 
thought  that  upon  his  person  any  assault  was 
meditated  Wharton  dismissed  as  unintelligent. 
That  it  was  upon  his  reputation  the  attack  was 
planned  seemed  much  more  probable.  But  that 
contingency  he  had  foreseen  and  so,  he  believed, 
forestalled.  There  then  remained  only  the  pos 
sibility  that  the  offer  in  the  letter  was  genuine. 
It  seemed  quite  too  good  to  be  true.  For,  as  he 
asked  himself,  on  the  very  eve  of  an  election,  why 
should  Tammany,  or  a  friend  of  Tammany,  place 
in  his  possession  the  information  that  to  the  Tam 
many  candidate  would  bring  inevitable  defeat. 
He  felt  that  the  way  they  were  playing  into  his 
hands  was  too  open,  too  generous.  If  their  object 
was  to  lead  him  into  a  trap,  of  all  baits  they  might 
use  the  promise  to  tell  him  who  killed  Banf  was 
the  one  certain  to  attract  him.  It  made  their 
invitation  to  walk  into  the  parlor  almost  too  ob 
vious.  But  were  the  offer  not  genuine,  there  was 
a  condition  attached  to  it  that  puzzled  him.  It 
was  not  the  condition  that  stipulated  he  should 
come  alone.  His  experience  had  taught  him 
many  will  confess,  or  betray,  to  the  district  at- 

201 


The  Frame-Up 

torney  who,  to  a  deputy,  will  tell  nothing.  The 
condition  that  puzzled  him  was  the  one  that  in 
sisted  he  should  come  at  once  or  it  would  be 
"too  late." 

Why  was  haste  so  imperative  ?  Why,  if  he  de 
layed,  would  he  be  "too  late"  ?  Was  the  man  he 
sought  about  to  escape  from  his  jurisdiction,  was 
he  dying,  and  was  it  his  wish  to  make  a  death-bed 
confession;  or  was  he  so  reluctant  to  speak  that 
delay  might  cause  him  to  reconsider  and  remain 
silent  ? 

With  these  questions  in  his  mind,  the  minutes 
quickly  passed,  and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  excite 
ment  Wharton  saw  that  Nolan  had  left  the  Zoo 
logical  Gardens  on  the  right  and  turned  into  the 
Boston  Road.  It  had  but  lately  been  completed 
and  to  Wharton  was  unfamiliar.  On  either  side 
of  the  unscarred  roadway  still  lay  scattered  the 
uprooted  trees  and  bowlders  that  had  blocked 
its  progress,  and  abandoned  by  the  contractors 
were  empty  tar-barrels,  cement-sacks,  tool-sheds, 
and  forges.  Nor  was  the  surrounding  landscape 
less  raw  and  unlovely.  Toward  the  Sound 
stretched  vacant  lots  covered  with  ash  heaps;  to 
the  left  a  few  old  and  broken  houses  set  among 
the  glass-covered  cold  frames  of  truck-farms. 

The  district  attorney  felt  a  sudden  twinge  of 
202 


The  Frame-Up 

loneliness.  And  when  an  automobile  sign  told 
him  he  was  "10  miles  from  Columbus  Circle/' 
he  felt  that  from  the  New  York  he  knew  he  was 
much  farther.  Two  miles  up  the  road  his  car 
overhauled  a  bicycle  policeman,  and  Wharton 
halted  him. 

"Is  there  a  road-house  called  Kessler's  beyond 
here?  "he  asked. 

"On  the  left,  farther  up,"  the  officer  told  him, 
and  added:  "You  can't  miss  it,  Mr.  Wharton; 
there's  no  other  house  near  it." 

"You  know  me,"  said  the  D.  A.  "Then  you'll 
understand  what  I  want  you  to  do.  I've  agreed 
to  go  to  that  house  alone.  If  they  see  you  pass 
they  may  think  I'm  not  playing  fair.  So  stop 
here." 

The  man  nodded  and  dismounted. 

"But,"  added  the  district  attorney,  as  the  car 
started  forward  again,  "if  you  hear  shots,  I  don't 
care  how  fast  you  come." 

The  officer  grinned. 

"Better  let  me  trail  along  now,"  he  called; 
"that's  a  tough  joint." 

But  Wharton  motioned  him  back;  and  when 
again  he  turned  to  look  the  man  still  stood 
where  they  had  parted. 

Two  minutes  later  an  empty  taxi-cab  came 
203 


The  Frame-Up 

swiftly  toward  him  and,  as  it  passed,  the  driver 
lifted  his  hand  from  the  wheel  and  with  his  thumb 
motioned  behind  him. 

"That's  one  of  the  men,"  said  Nolan,  "that 
started  with  Mr.  Rumson  and  Hewitt  from  Del- 
monico's." 

Wharton  nodded;  and,  now  assured  that  in  their 
plan  there  had  been  no  hitch,  smiled  with  satis 
faction.  A  moment  later,  when  ahead  of  them  on 
the  asphalt  road  Nolan  pointed  out  a  spot  of  yel 
low,  he  recognized  the  signal  and  knew  that  within 
call  were  friends. 

The  yellow  ciagarette-box  lay  directly  in  front  of 
a  long  wooden  building  of  two  stories.  It  was 
linked  to  the  road  by  a  curving  driveway  marked 
on  either  side  by  whitewashed  stones.  On  ve 
randas  enclosed  in  glass  Wharton  saw  white- 
covered  tables  under  red  candle-shades  and,  pro 
truding  from  one  end  of  the  house  and  hung  with 
electric  lights  in  paper  lanterns,  a  pavilion  for 
dancing.  In  the  rear  of  the  house  stood  sheds  and 
a  thick  tangle  of  trees  on  which  the  autumn 
leaves  showed  yellow.  Painted  fingers  and  ar 
rows  pointing,  and  an  electric  sign,  proclaimed  to 
all  who  passed  that  this  was  Kessler's.  In  spite 
of  its  reputation,  the  house  wore  the  aspect  of 
the  commonplace.  In  evidence  nothing  flaunted, 

204 


The  Frame-Up 

nothing  threatened.  From  a  dozen  other  inns 
along  the  Pelham  Parkway  and  the  Boston  Post 
Road  it  was  in  no  way  to  be  distinguished. 

As  directed  in  the  note,  Wharton  left  the  car 
in  the  road.  "For  five  minutes  stay  where  you 
are/'  he  ordered  Nolan;  "then  go  to  the  bar  and 
get  a  drink.  Don't  talk  to  any  one  or  they'll 
think  you're  trying  to  get  information.  Work 
around  to  the  back  of  the  house.  Stand  where 
I  can  see  you  from  the  window.  I  may  want  you 
to  carry  a  message  to  Mr.  Rumson." 

On  foot  Wharton  walked  up  the  curving  drive 
way,  and  if  from  the  house  his  approach  was 
spied  upon,  there  was  no  evidence.  In  the  second 
story  the  blinds  were  drawn  and  on  the  first  floor 
the  verandas  were  empty.  Nor,  not  even  after 
he  had  mounted  to  the  veranda  and  stepped  in 
side  the  house,  was  there  any  sign  that  his  visit 
was  expected.  He  stood  in  a  hall,  and  in  front  of 
him  rose  a  broad  flight  of  stairs  that  he  guessed 
led  to  the  private  supper-rooms.  On  his  left  was 
the  restaurant. 

Swept  and  garnished  after  the  revels  of  the 
night  previous,  and  as  though  resting  in  prepara 
tion  for  those  to  come,  it  wore  an  air  of  peaceful 
inactivity.  At  a  table  a  maitre  d'hotel  was  com 
posing  the  menu  for  the  evening,  against  the  walls 

205 


The  Frame-Up 

three  colored  waiters  lounged  sleepily,  and  on  a 
platform  at  a  piano  a  pale  youth  with  drugged 
eyes  was  with  one  har  \  picking  an  accompani 
ment.  As  Wharton  paused  uncertainly  the  young 
man,  disdaining  his  audience,  in  a  shrill,  nasal 
tenor  raised  his  voice  and  sang: 

"And  from  the  time  the  rooster  calls 
I'll  wear  my  overalls, 

And  you,  a  simple  gingham  gown. 
So,  if  you're  strong  for  a  shower  of  rice, 
We  two  could  make  a  paradise 

Of  any  One-Horse  Town." 

At  sight  of  Wharton  the  head  waiter  reluc 
tantly  detached  himself  from  his  menu  and  rose. 
But  before  he  could  greet  the  visitor,  Wharton 
heard  his  name  spoken  and,  looking  up,  saw  a 
woman  descending  the  stairs.  It  was  apparent 
that  when  young  she  had  been  beautiful,  and, 
in  spite  of  an  expression  in  her  eyes  of  hardness 
and  distrust,  which  seemed  habitual,  she  was  still 
handsome.  She  was  without  a  hat  and  wearing 
a  house  dress  of  decorous  shades  and  in  the  ex 
treme  of  fashion.  Her  black  hair,  built  up  in  ar 
tificial  waves,  was  heavy  with  brilliantine;  her 
hands,  covered  deep  with  rings,  and  of  an  unnat 
ural  white,  showed  the  most  fastidious  care. 
But  her  complexion  was  her  own;  and  her  skin, 

206 


The  Frame-Up 

free  from  paint  and  powder,  glowed  with  that 
healthy  pink  that  is  supposed  to  be  the  perquisite 
only  of  the  simple  life  and  a  conscience  undis 
turbed. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Earle,"  said  the  woman.  "I  wrote 
you  that  note.  Will  you  please  come  this  way  ?" 

That  she  did  not  suppose  he  might  not  come 
that  way  was  obvious,  for,  as  she  spoke,  she 
turned  her  back  on  him  and  mounted  the  stairs. 
After  an  instant  of  hesitation,  Wharton  followed. 

As  well  as  his  mind,  his  body  was  now  acutely 
alive  and  vigilant.  Both  physically  and  mentally 
he  moved  on  tiptoe.  For  whatever  surprise,  for 
whatever  ambush  might  lie  in  wait,  he  was  pre 
pared.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  found  a  wide 
hall  along  which  on  both  sides  were  many  doors. 
The  one  directly  facing  the  stairs  stood  open. 
At  one  side  of  this  the  woman  halted  and  with  a 
gesture  of  the  jewelled  fingers  invited  him  to 
enter. 

"My  sitting-room,"  she  said.  As  Wharton  re 
mained  motionless  she  substituted:  " My  office." 

Peering  into  the  room,  Wharton  found  it  suited 
to  both  titles.  He  saw  comfortable  chairs,  vases 
filled  with  autumn  leaves,  in  silver  frames  photo 
graphs,  and  between  two  open  windows  a  business 
like  roller-top  desk  on  which  was  a  hand  tele- 

207 


The  Frame-Up 

phone.  In  plain  sight  through  the  windows  he 
beheld  the  garage  and  behind  it  the  tops  of  trees. 
To  summon  Rumson,  to  keep  in  touch  with  Nolan, 
he  need  only  step  to  one  of  these  windows  and 
beckon.  The  strategic  position  of  the  room  ap 
pealed,  and  with  a  bow  of  the  head  he  passed  in 
front  of  his  hostess  and  entered  it.  He  continued 
to  take  note  of  his  surroundings. 

He  now  saw  that  from  the  office  in  which  he 
stood  doors  led  to  rooms  adjoining.  These  doors 
were  shut,  and  he  determined  swiftly  that  before 
the  interview  began  he  first  must  know  what  lay 
behind  them.  Mrs.  Earle  had  followed  and,  as 
she  entered,  closed  the  door. 

"No!"  said  Wharton. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken.  For  an 
instant  the  woman  hesitated,  regarding  him 
thoughtfully,  and  then  without  resentment  pulled 
the  door  open.  She  came  toward  him  swiftly, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  the  rustle  of  silk  and  the 
stirring  of  perfumes.  At  the  open  door  she  cast  a 
frown  of  disapproval  and  then,  with  her  face  close 
to  his,  spoke  hurriedly  in  a  whisper. 

"A  man  brought  a  girl  here  to  lunch,"  she  said; 
"they've  been  here  before.  The  girl  claims  the 
man  told  her  he  was  going  to  marry  her.  Last 
night  she  found  out  he  has  a  wife  already,  and 

208 


The  Frame-Up 

she  came  here  to-day  meaning  to  make  trouble. 
She  brought  a  gun.  They  were  in  the  room  at  the 
far  end  of  the  hall.  George,  the  waiter,  heard  the 
two  shots  and  ran  down  here  to  get  me.  No  one 
else  heard.  These  rooms  are  fixed  to  keep  out 
noise,  and  the  piano  was  going.  We  broke  in  and 
found  them  on  the  floor.  The  man  was  shot 
through  the  shoulder,  the  girl  through  the  body. 
His  story  is  that  after  she  fired,  in  trying  to  get 
the  gun  from  her,  she  shot  herself — by  accident. 
That's  right,  I  guess.  But  the  girl  says  they 
came  here  to  die  together — what  the  newspaper 
call  a  'suicide  pact' — because  they  couldn't 
marry,  and  that  he  first  shot  her,  intending  to 
kill  her  and  then  himself.  That's  silly.  She 
framed  it  to  get  him.  She  missed  him  with  the 
gun,  so  now  she's  trying  to  get  him  with  this 
murder  charge.  I  know  her.  If  she'd  been  so 
ber  she  wouldn't  have  shot  him;  she'd  have 
blackmailed  him.  She's  that  sort.  I  know  her, 
and " 

With  an  exclamation  the  district  attorney  broke 
in  upon  her.  "And  the  man,"  he  demanded  ea 
gerly;  "was  it  he  killed  Banf  ?" 

In  amazement  the  woman  stared.  "Certainly 
not  /"  she  said. 

"Then  what  has  this  to  do  with  Banf?" 
209 


The  Frame-Up 

"Nothing  1"  Her  tone  was  annoyed,  reproach 
ful.  "That  was  only  to  bring  you  here " 

His  disappointment  was  so  keen  that  it  threat 
ened  to  exhibit  itself  in  anger.  Recognizing  this, 
before  he  spoke  Wharton  forced  himself  to  pause. 
Then  he  repeated  her  words  quietly. 

"Bring  me  here?"  he  asked.     "Why?" 

The  woman  exclaimed  impatiently:  "So  you 
could  beat  the  police  to  it,"  she  whispered.  "So 
you  could  hush  it  up!" 

The  surprised  laugh  of  the  man  was  quite  real. 
It  bore  no  resentment  or  pose.  He  was  genu 
inely  amused.  Then  the  dignity  of  his  office, 
tricked  and  insulted,  demanded  to  be  heard. 
He  stared  at  her  coldly;  his  indignation  was 
apparent. 

"You  have  done  extremely  ill,"  he  told  her. 
"You  know  perfectly  well  you  had  no  right  to 
bring  me  up  here;  to  drag  me  into  a  row  in  your 
road-house.  'Hush  it  up!'"  he  exclaimed  hotly. 
This  time  his  laugh  was  contemptuous  and 
threatening. 

"I'll  show  you  how  I'll  hush  it  up!"  He 
moved  quickly  to  the  open  window. 

"Stop  !"  commanded  the  woman.  "You  can't 
do  that!" 

She  ran  to  the  door. 

210 


The  Frame-Up 

Again  he  was  conscious  of  the  rustle  of  silk, 
of  the  stirring  of  perfumes. 

He  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  It  had 
come.  It  WAS  a  frame-up.  There  would  be  a 
scandal.  And  to  save  himself  from  it  they  would 
force  him  to  "hush  up"  this  other  one.  But,  as 
to  the  outcome,  in  no  way  was  he  concerned. 
Through  the  window,  standing  directly  below  it, 
he  had  seen  Nolan.  In  the  sunlit  yard  the  chauf 
feur,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  ciga 
rette  drooping  from  his  lips,  was  tossing  the  rem 
nants  of  a  sandwich  to  a  circle  of  excited  hens. 
He  presented  a  picture  of  bored  indolence,  of 
innocent  preoccupation.  It  was  almost  too  well 
done. 

Assured  of  a  witness  for  the  defense,  he  greeted 
the  woman  with  a  smile.  "Why  can't  I  do  it?" 
he  taunted. 

She  ran  close  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his 
arm.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  his.  "Be 
cause,"  she  whispered,  "the  man  who  shot  that 
girl — is  your  brother-in-law,  Ham  Cutler!" 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time  Wharton  stood 
looking  down  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman,  and 
the  eyes  never  faltered.  Later  he  recalled  that 
in  the  sudden  silence  many  noises  disturbed  the 
lazy  hush  of  the  Indian-summer  afternoon:  the 

211 


The  Frame-Up 

rush  of  a  motor-car  on  the  Boston  Road,  the 
tinkle  of  the  piano  and  the  voice  of  the  youth 
with  the  drugged  eyes  singing,  "And  you'll  wear 
a  simple  gingham  gown,"  from  the  yard  below 
the  cluck-cluck  of  the  chickens  and  the  cooing 
of  pigeons. 

His  first  thought  was  of  his  sister  and  of  her 
children,  and  of  what  this  bomb,  hurled  from  the 
clouds,  would  mean  to  her.  He  thought  of  Cut 
ler,  at  the  height  of  his  power  and  usefulness,  by 
this  one  disreputable  act  dragged  into  the  mire, 
of  what  disaster  it  might  bring  to  the  party,  to 
himself. 

If,  as  the  woman  invited,  he  helped  to  "hush 
it  up,"  and  Tammany  learned  the  truth,  it  would 
make  short  work  of  him.  It  would  say,  for  the 
murderer  of  Banf  he  had  one  law  and  for  the  rich 
brother-in-law,  who  had  tried  to  kill  the  girl  he 
deceived,  another.  But  before  he  gave  voice  to 
his  thoughts  he  recognized  them  as  springing  only 
from  panic.  They  were  of  a  part  with  the  acts 
of  men  driven  by  sudden  fear,  and  of  which  acts 
in  their  sane  moments  they  would  be  incapable. 

The  shock  of  the  woman's  words  had  unset 
tled  his  traditions.  Not  only  was  he  condemning 
a  man  unheard,  but  a  man  who,  though  he  might 
dislike  him,  he  had  for  years,  for  his  private  vir- 

212 


The  Frame-Up 

tues,  trusted  and  admired.    The  panic  passed  and 
with  a  confident  smile  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  manner  of  the  woman  was  equally  calm, 
equally  assured. 

"Will  you  see  her?"  she  asked. 

"I'd  rather  see  my  brother-in-law,"  he  an 
swered. 

The  woman  handed  him  a  card. 

"Doctor  Muir  took  him  to  his  private  hospital," 
she  said.  "I  loaned  them  my  car  because  it's  a 
limousine.  The  address  is  on  that  card.  But," 
she  added,  "both  your  brother  and  Sammy — 
that's  Sam  Muir,  the  doctor — asked  you  wouldn't 
use  the  telephone;  they're  afraid  of  a  leak." 

Apparently  Wharton  did  not  hear  her.  As 
though  it  were  "Exhibit  A,"  presented  in  evidence 
by  the  defense,  he  was  studying  the  card  she  had 
given  him.  He  stuck  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I'll  go  to  him  at  once,"  he  said. 

To  restrain  or  dissuade  him,  the  woman  made 
no  sudden  move.  In  level  tones  she  said:  "Your 
brother-in-law  asked  especially  that  you  wouldn't 
do  that  until  you'd  fixed  it  with  the  girl.  Your 
face  is  too  well  known.  He's  afraid  some  one 
might  find  out  where  he  is — and  for  a  day  or 
two  no  one  must  know  that." 

213 


The  Frame-Up 

"This  doctor  knows  it,"  retorted  Wharton. 

The  suggestion  seemed  to  strike  Mrs.  Earle  as 
humorous.  For  the  first  time  she  laughed. 

"Sammy!"  she  exclaimed,  "He's  a  lobbygow 
of  mine.  He's  worked  for  me  for  years.  I  could 
send  him  up  the  river  if  I  liked.  He  knows  it." 
Her  tone  was  convincing.  "They  both  asked," 
she  continued  evenly,  "you  should  keep  off  until 
the  girl  is  out  of  the  country,  and  fixed." 

Wharton  frowned  thoughtfully. 

And,  observing  this,  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
showed  that,  so  far,  toward  the  unfortunate  inci 
dent  the  attitude  of  the  district  attorney  was  to 
her  most  gratifying. 

Wharton  ceased  frowning. 

"How  fixed?  "he  asked. 

Mrs.  Earle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Cutler's  idea  is  money,"  she  said;  "but,  be 
lieve  me,  he's  wrong.  This  girl  is  a  vampire. 
She'll  only  come  back  to  you  for  more.  She'll 
keep  on  threatening  to  tell  the  wife,  to  tell  the 
papers.  The  way  to  fix  her  is  to  throw  a  scare 
into  her.  And  there's  only  one  man  can  do  that; 
there's  only  one  man  that  can  hush  this  thing 
up — that's  you." 

"When  can  I  see  her?"  asked  Wharton. 

"Now,"  said  the  woman.     "I'll  bring  her." 
214 


The  Frame-Up 

Wharton  could  not  suppress  an  involuntary 
start. 

"Here?  "he  exclaimed. 

For  the  shade  of  a  second  Mrs.  Earle  exhibited 
the  slightest  evidence  of  embarrassment. 

"My  room's  in  a  mess,"  she  explained;  "and 
she's  not  hurt  so  much  as  Sammy  said.  He  told 
her  she  was  in  bad  just  to  keep  her  quiet  until 
you  got  here." 

Mrs.  Earle  opened  one  of  the  doors  leading 
from  the  room.  "I  won't  be  a  minute,"  she  said. 
Quietly  she  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Upon  her  disappearance  the  manner  of  the 
district  attorney  underwent  an  abrupt  change. 
He  ran  softly  to  the  door  opposite  the  one  through 
which  Mrs.  Earle  had  passed,  and  pulled  it  open. 
But,  if  beyond  it  he  expected  to  find  an  audience 
of  eavesdroppers,  he  was  disappointed.  The  room 
was  empty — and  bore  no  evidence  of  recent  oc 
cupation.  He  closed  the  door,  and,  from  the 
roller-top  desk,  snatching  a  piece  of  paper,  scrib 
bled  upon  it  hastily.  Wrapping  the  paper  around 
a  coin,  and  holding  it  exposed  to  view,  he  showed 
himself  at  the  window.  Below  him,  to  an  in 
creasing  circle  of  hens  and  pigeons,  Nolan  was 
still  scattering  crumbs.  Without  withdrawing  his 
gaze  from  them,  the  chauffeur  nodded.  Wharton 


The  Frame-Up 

opened  his  hand  and  the  note  fell  into  the  yard. 
Behind  him  he  heard  the  murmur  of  voices,  the 
sobs  of  a  woman  in  pain,  and  the  rattle  of  a  door 
knob.  As  from  the  window  he  turned  quickly, 
he  saw  that  toward  the  spot  where  his  note  had 
fallen  Nolan  was  tossing  the  last  remnants  of  his 
sandwich. 

The  girl  who  entered  with  Mrs.  Earle,  leaning 
on  her  and  supported  by  her,  was  tall  and  fair. 
Around  her  shoulders  her  blond  hair  hung  in 
disorder,  and  around  her  waist,  under  the  kimono 
Mrs.  Earle  had  thrown  about  her,  were  wrapped 
many  layers  of  bandages.  The  girl  moved  un 
steadily  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

In  a  hostile  tone  Mrs.  Earle  addressed  her. 

"Rose,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  district  attor 
ney."  To  him  she  added:  "She  calls  herself 
Rose  Gerard." 

One  hand  the  girl  held  close  against  her  side, 
with  the  other  she  brushed  back  the  hair  from 
her  forehead.  From  half-closed  eyes  she  stared 
at  Wharton  defiantly. 

"Well,"  she  challenged,  "what  about  it?" 

Wharton  seated  himself  in  front  of  the  roller- 
top  desk. 

"Are  you  strong  enough  to  tell  me?"  he 
asked. 

216 


The  Frame-Up 

His  tone  was  kind,  and  this  the  girl  seemed  to 
resent. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  she  sneered,  "I'm  strong 
enough.  Strong  enough  to  tell  all  I  know — to 
you,  and  to  the  papers,  and  to  a  jury — until  I 
get  justice."  She  clinched  her  free  hand  and 
feebly  shook  it  at  him.  "  That's  what  I'm  going 
to  get,"  she  cried,  her  voice  breaking  hysterically, 
"justice." 

From  behind  the  armchair  in  which  the  girl 
half-reclined  Mrs.  Earle  caught  the  eye  of  the 
district  attorney  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Just  what  did  happen?"  asked  Wharton. 

Apparently  with  an  effort  the  girl  pulled  her 
self  together. 

"I  first  met  your  brother-in-law — "  she  began. 

Wharton  interrupted  quietly. 

"Wait!"  he  said.  "You  are  not  talking  to 
me  as  anybody's  brother-in-law,  but  as  the  dis 
trict  attorney." 

The  girl  laughed  vindictively. 

"I  don't  wonder  you're  ashamed  of  him!"  she 
jeered. 

Again  she  began:  "I  first  met  Ham  Cutler 
last  May.  He  wanted  to  marry  me  then.  He 
told  me  he  was  not  a  married  man." 

As  her  story  unfolded,  Wharton  did  not  again 
217 


The  Frame-Up 

interrupt;  and  speaking  quickly,  in  abrupt,  broken 
phrases,  the  girl  brought  her  narrative  to  the 
moment  when,  as  she  claimed,  Cutler  had  at 
tempted  to  kill  her.  At  this  point  a  knock  at 
the  locked  door  caused  both  the  girl  and  her 
audience  to  start.  Wharton  looked  at  Mrs.  Earle 
inquiringly,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  with  a 
look  at  him  also  of  inquiry,  and  of  suspicion  as 
well,  opened  the  door. 

With  apologies  her  head  waiter  presented  a 
letter. 

"For  Mr.  Wharton,"  he  explained,  "from  his 
chauffeur." 

Wharton's  annoyance  at  the  interruption  was 
most  apparent.  "What  the  devil — "  he  began. 

He  read  the  note  rapidly,  and  with  a  frown  of 
irritation  raised  his  eyes  to  Mrs.  Earle. 

"He  wants  to  go  to  New  Rochelle  for  an  inner 
tube,"  he  said.  "How  long  would  it  take  him 
to  get  there  and  back?" 

The  hard  and  distrustful  expression  upon  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Earle,  which  was  habitual,  was  now 
most  strongly  in  evidence.  Her  eyes  searched 
those  of  Wharton. 

"Twenty  minutes,"  she  said. 

"He  can't  go,"  snapped  Wharton. 

"Tell  him,"  he  directed  the  waiter,  "to  stay 
218 


The  Frame-Up 

where  he  is.  Tell  him  I  may  want  to  go  back 
to  the  office  any  minute."  He  turned  eagerly  to 
the  girl.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  With  impatience 
he  crumpled  the  note  into  a  ball  and  glanced 
about  him.  At  his  feet  was  a  waste-paper  basket. 
Fixed  upon  him  he  saw,  while  pretending  not  to 
see,  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Earle  burning  with  suspicion. 
If  he  destroyed  the  note,  he  knew  suspicion  would 
become  certainty.  Without  an  instant  of  hesita 
tion,  carelessly  he  tossed  it  intact  into  the  waste- 
paper  basket.  Toward  Rose  Gerard  he  swung 
the  revolving  chair. 

"Go  on,  please,"  he  commanded. 

The  girl  had  now  reached  the  climax  of  her 
story,  but  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Earle  betrayed  the 
fact  that  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  With  an 
intense  and  hungry  longing,  they  were  concen 
trated  upon  her  own  waste-paper  basket. 

The  voice  of  the  girl  in  anger  and  defiance 
recalled  Mrs.  Earle  to  the  business  of  the  mo 
ment. 

"He  tried  to  kill  me,"  shouted  Miss  Rose. 
"And  his  shooting  himself  in  the  shoulder  was 
a  bluff.  That's  my  story;  that's  the  story  I'm 
going  to  tell  the  judge" — her  voice  soared  shrilly 
— "that's  the  story  that's  going  to  send  your 
brother-in-law  to  Sing  Sing!" 

219 


The  Frame-Up 


For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Earle  contributed  to 
the  general  conversation. 

"You  talk  like  a  fish,"  she  said. 

The  girl  turned  upon  her  savagely. 

"If  he  don't  like  the  way  I  talk,"  she  cried, 
"he  can  come  across!" 

Mrs.  Earle  exclaimed  in  horror.  Virtuously 
her  hands  were  raised  in  protest. 

"Like  hell  he  will!"  she  said.  "You  can't 
pull  that  under  my  roof!" 

Wharton  looked  disturbed. 
"Come  across'?"  he  asked. 

"Come  across  ?"  mimicked  the  girl.  "Send  me 
abroad  and  keep  me  there.  And  I'll  swear  it  was 
an  accident.  Twenty-five  thousand,  that's  all  I 
want.  Cutler  told  me  he  was  going  to  make  you 
governor.  He  can't  make  you  governor  if  he's 
in  Sing  Sing,  can  he  ?  Ain't  it  worth  twenty- 
five  thousand  to  you  to  be  governor?  Come 
on,"  she  jeered,  "kick  in  !" 

With  a  grave  but  untroubled  voice  Wharton 
addressed  Mrs.  Earle. 

"May  I  use  your  telephone?"  he  asked.  He 
did  not  wait  for  her  consent,  but  from  the  desk 
lifted  the  hand  telephone. 

"Spring,  three  one  hundred!"  he  said.  He 
sat  with  his  legs  comfortably  crossed,  the  stand 

220 


The  Frame-Up 

of  the  instrument  balanced  on  his  knee,  his  eyes 
gazing  meditatively  at  the  yellow  tree-tops. 

If  with  apprehension  both  women  started,  if 
the  girl  thrust  herself  forward,  and  by  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Earle  was  dragged  back,  he  did  not  ap 
pear  to  know  it. 

"Police  headquarters?"  they  heard  him  ask. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  the  commissioner.  This  is 
the  district  attorney." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  as  though  to  tor 
ment  her,  the  pain  in  her  side  apparently  returned, 
for  the  girl  screamed  sharply. 

"Be  still!"  commanded  the  older  woman. 
Breathless,  across  the  top  of  the  armchair,  she 
was  leaning  forward.  Upon  the  man  at  the  tele 
phone  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  fascination. 

"Commissioner,"  said  the  district  attorney, 
"this  is  Wharton  speaking.  A  woman  has  made 
a  charge  of  attempted  murder  to  me  against  my 
brother-in-law,  Hamilton  Cutler.  On  account  of 
our  relationship,  I  want  YOU  to  make  the  arrest. 
If  there  were  any  slip,  and  he  got  away,  it  might 
be  said  I  arranged  it.  You  will  find  him  at  the 
Winona  apartments  on  the  Southern  Boulevard, 
in  the  private  hospital  of  a  Doctor  Samuel  Muir. 
Arrest  them  both.  The  girl  who  makes  the  charge 
is  at  Kessler's  Cafe,  on  the  Boston  Post  Road, 

221 


The  Frame-Up 

just  inside  the  city  line.  Arrest  her  too.  She 
tried  to  blackmail  me.  I'll  appear  against  her." 

Wharton  rose  and  addressed  himself  to  Mrs. 
Earle. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  had  to  do  it. 
You  might  have  known  I  could  not  hush  it  up. 
I  am  the  only  man  who  can't  hush  it  up.  The 
people  of  New  York  elected  me  to  enforce  the 
laws."  Wharton's  voice  was  raised  to  a  loud 
pitch.  It  seemed  unnecessarily  loud.  It  was  al 
most  as  though  he  were  addressing  another  and 
more  distant  audience.  "And,"  he  continued, 
his  voice  still  soaring,  "even  if  my  own  family 
suffer,  even  if  I  suffer,  even  if  I  lose  political 
promotion,  those  laws  I  will  enforce!" 

In  the  more  conventional  tone  of  every-day 
politeness,  he  added: 

"May  I  speak  to  you  outside,  Mrs.  Earle  ?" 

But,  as  in  silence  that  lady  descended  the 
stairs,  the  district  attorney  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  what  it  was  he  wished  to  say. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  seen  his  chauffeur  arouse 
himself  from  apparently  deep  slumber  and  crank 
the  car  that  he  addressed  her. 

"That  girl,"  he  said,  "had  better  go  back  to 
bed.  My  men  are  all  around  this  house  and, 
until  the  police  come,  will  detain  her." 

222 


The  Frame-Up 

He  shook  the  jewelled  fingers  of  Mrs.  Earle 
warmly.  "I  thank  you,"  he  said;  "I  know  you 
meant  well.  I  know  you  wanted  to  help  me, 
but" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "my  duty!" 

As  he  walked  down  the  driveway  to  his  car 
his  shoulders  continued  to  move. 

But  Mrs.  Earle  did  not  wait  to  observe  this 
phenomenon.  Rid  of  his  presence,  she  leaped, 
rather  than  ran,  up  the  stairs  and  threw  open 
the  door  of  her  office. 

As  she  entered,  two  men  followed  her.  One 
was  a  young  man  who  held  in  his  hand  an  open 
note-book,  the  other  was  Tim  Meehan,  of  Tam 
many.  The  latter  greeted  her  with  a  shout. 

"We  heard  everything  he  said  !"  he  cried.  His 
voice  rose  in  torment.  "An*  we  can't  use  a  word 
of  it !  He  acted  just  like  we'd  oughta  knowed 
he'd  act.  He's  HONEST  !  He's  so  damned  honest 
he  ain't  human;  he's  a gilded  saint!" 

Mrs.  Earle  did  not  heed  him.  On  her  knees 
she  was  tossing  to  the  floor  the  contents  of  the 
waste-paper  basket.  From  them  she  snatched  a 
piece  of  crumpled  paper. 

"  Shut  up  ! "  she  shouted.  " Listen  !  His  chauf 
feur  brought  him  this."  In  a  voice  that  quivered 
with  indignation,  that  sobbed  with  anger,  she 
read  aloud: 

223 


The  Frame-Up 

'  'As  directed  by  your  note  from  the  window, 
I  went  to  the  booth  and  called  up  Mrs.  Cutler's 
house  and  got  herself  on  the  phone.  Your  brother- 
in-law  lunched  at  home  to-day  with  her  and  the 
children  and  they  are  now  going  to  the  Hippo 
drome. 

'  'Stop,  look,  and  listen !  Back  of  the  bar  I  see 
two  men  in  a  room,  but  they  did  not  see  me. 
One  is  Tim  Meehan,  the  other  is  a  stenographer. 
He  is  taking  notes.  Each  of  them  has  on  the 
ear-muffs  of  a  dictagraph.  Looks  like  you'd 
better  watch  your  step  and  not  say  nothing  you 
don't  want  Tammany  to  print.' '  The  voice  of 
Mrs.  Earle  rose  in  a  shrill  shriek. 

"Him — a  gilded  saint?"  she  screamed;  "you 
big  stiff!  He  knew  he  was  talking  into  a  dicta 
graph  all  the  time — and  he  double-crossed  us!" 


224 


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